


Five Years Later: Conversation with a Vampire

by Klytaimnestra



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 99,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klytaimnestra/pseuds/Klytaimnestra





	1. Chapter 1

The message had been on Natalie's answering  
machine when she returned from work three nights before. "Natalie.  
This is Nicholas Knight. I'm in town all week. I'm hoping you'll  
be able to meet me for coffee or dinner. If you're willing, please  
leave a message to tell me when and where." He gave a telephone  
number. A brief silence followed; she could hear faint music in  
the background. Then "I understand if you don't want to see  
me. But I hope you'll call."

He hadn't needed to give his name; even five years later his  
voice was shockingly familiar. She breathed in sharply, washed  
in a sudden flood of memory and emotion. Then she replayed and  
saved the message, noting the number on the pad by the phone.

She called him from work the following afternoon. One thing  
she had decided, years ago, was never again, with anyone, to accept  
or indulge in the game-playing, the continual concealment of thought  
and emotion, that had fatally marred her relationship with Nick.  
She would not hide the fact that she was willing, and curious,  
to see him. On the other hand, she didn't want to speak to him  
immediately, so she called during the day. Barring a miracle,  
he would not answer the phone.

He was staying in a downtown hotel. She left a message on his  
voicemail. She would be pleased to see him on Thursday at 8:30  
p.m. at a cafe she named near the hospital. If this was inconvenient,  
please leave a message with an alternate suggestion. Otherwise  
she would be there.

That night Natalie was on call, and three difficult cases arrived  
one after another. By the time she came home she was too tired  
to think, and fell into bed for a dreamless sleep. Her after-work  
yoga class the following evening was less successful in distracting  
her thoughts, but it relaxed her and drained the tension in her  
back and neck. The walk home gave her time to decide what to wear  
the following evening. Pride made her want to appear to advantage;  
to show that though she was mortal, she hadn't degenerated in  
five years. On the other hand, she didn't want to seem to have  
tried too hard. She settled on casual but flattering: a knitted  
green tweed wool turtleneck she had bought on a trip to Ireland,  
charcoal grey trousers, and small gold and emerald earrings, a  
gift from a friend. Her grey trench coat, if it threatened to  
rain.

She felt foolish in giving her appearance this much thought,  
but if she was going to meet him at all, she wanted to look her  
best. It was better to admit it, and think how best to do it,  
than to try to tell herself that it wasn't important to her.

Natalie left work a little early the next day, and went for  
a long walk on the seawall to relax. She was nervous and wanted  
to be calm. After her walk she showered, letting the water massage  
her shoulders, and dried her hair, now cut to shoulder length,  
and falling in soft curls. She was not particularly interested  
in food, but ate a bowl of tomato soup with toast. Since her recovery,  
she had needed regular small meals to maintain her blood sugar  
levels, and that had lately become even more necessary. She watered  
the plants, fed Sinbad, and set out.

She timed herself to be punctual but not early. She brought  
a book, in case he was late, or didn't come at all. The cafe was  
three blocks from her home. She ate dinner there at least once  
a week. She felt secure there; it was public space but still her  
home territory.

The cafe was busy and Nat stood at the doorway a moment, allowing  
her eyes to adjust to the light and the movement inside. She thought  
she had probably arrived before him. Then a man half-rose from  
a semi-secluded booth at the back, looking in her direction. She  
didn't know how she had not immediately recognized his profile,  
the set of his shoulders, even at this distance. She nodded and  
raised her hand to him in acknowledgment, and went to the bar  
to place her usual order recently, steamed milk with almond. Safely  
out of Nick's line of vision at the bar, she took a deep breath  
and rolled her shoulders to release the tension there. Showtime.  
She smiled her thanks to the server for the steamed milk when  
it came, and made her way to the back of the cafe.

Nick looked weary. He was casually dressed in a soft grey collarless  
shirt and loose darker jacket. Stylish and appropriate, and designed,  
apparently, milliseconds ago. She wondered absently where he had  
come by that eye for up-to-the-minute mortal fashion. LaCroix,  
by contrast, had always looked slightly, and deliberately, archaic,  
whatever he wore.

Nick was pale as a ghost, as always. A glass of red wine, untouched  
by the look of it, sat before him on the table. He looked uneasy  
and out of place, somehow separate from the churn of lively human  
activity around him. Natalie suppressed a stab of sympathy. An  
805 year old vampire had presumably developed the survival skills  
to deal with a noisy cafe. She set her hot milk on the table when  
she reached it, and sat down across from him. The sounds of voices  
and cutlery became subdued, partially blocked by the walls of  
the booth.

"Nat. I wasn't sure you'd come."  
His voice was as she remembered, low, pleasant, faintly disturbing.

"Of course I came." Nat sipped her milk. The almond  
made it almost palatable.

Nick seemed to relax a bit. He looked at her intently. "You  
look well," he said, a faint note of surprise in his voice.  
"In fact you look - excellent." Nat smiled inwardly.

"Thank you. You look well yourself. A bit tired perhaps."

Nick looked a bit embarrassed. "I haven't slept well the  
last couple of days. I've been nervous about seeing you."  
This was surprising. Not that he was nervous, but that he would  
say so. Nick looked down and toyed with his wineglass. She drank  
a little more of her milk - it was better hot - and waited for  
him to continue.

Nick took a sip of his wine and grimaced. "You were wise  
not to order the wine," he said. "Do they make it themselves?"

"In a bathtub in the basement. So I'm told." Nat  
replied composedly.

Nick smiled. "And you didn't warn me."

"Not my fault you got here early." She smiled a little  
in return. The temperature warmed fractionally. "To be honest  
I've never tried it."

Nick sipped again. There was silence. He set the glass down  
and looked at her. "I mean it. You look great. It's - I'm  
glad to see you looking so well." He paused. Natalie murmured  
her thanks into her milk mug. "It seems life here suits you.  
How have you been?"

"I've been very well," said Nat. "I'm enjoying  
living here. Vancouver is a wonderful city."

"That's good. You're with the Vancouver PD?"

Natalie shook her head. "Not anymore. I realised while  
I was recovering how much I needed a change. So I retrained in  
ob/gyn - obstetrics and gynecology."

He didn't rise to the bait. "Obstetrics? That's a real  
switch! I thought it took a long time to retrain for another specialty?"

"It can," Nat answered. "But I did most of a  
surgery residency before I decided to become a coroner, and there's  
a lot of overlap." She paused, but Nick simply looked inquiring,  
so she continued. "Ob/gyn specialists have to be surgeons  
as well. I had to do some refresher work, of course. I did an  
accelerated ob/gyn residency at the teaching hospital here. I  
just finished last year."

"And you enjoy the work?" Nick seemed genuinely interested.

"Enormously. It is such a change to have patients I can  
talk to. And to participate in bringing a life into the world,  
instead of tracking, again and again, how it ended, and never  
being able to change anything, or help. "

"It helped to catch bad guys," Nick offered.

"Ultimately that wasn't enough. I became a doctor to help  
the living, not to do autopsies day after day, however worthy  
the cause. Somewhere along the line I forgot that. It's good to  
have another chance."

"It's surprising that you became a coroner at all, if  
what you say is true," Nick said.

Nat reflected. Why would Nick care how she came to be a coroner?  
After five years with no contact, surely he hadn't called her  
only to ask casual questions about her work. But he waited, looking  
at her, apparently hoping she would explain. Well, she had no  
objection to small talk. With a mental shrug, she continued.

"I think I may have become a coroner originally because  
in my twenties, when I was choosing a specialty, I was pretty  
shy, and uncomfortable around people. The amount of study it took  
to get into and through med school didn't give you a lot of practice  
dealing with them. So I picked a field that avoided it. A coroner's  
patients never talk back."

"But you were always very good at dealing with people,"  
protested Nick. "You were far more comfortable around them  
than I was."

"That's because I wasn't a natural loner.  
I was shy, but that wore off as I grew older. As my desire to  
avoid people faded, so did my reason for being a coroner. It could  
have taken me a long time to realise I was dissatisfied with the  
work, though. I'm glad I realised it soon enough that I could  
still change specialties. This suits me much better. I think it's  
one of the reasons I've been happy in Vancouver."

Nick still seemed inclined to pursue the question. "But  
there are many reasons to be coroner besides wanting to avoid  
live people. Um, discovering crime. Investigating disease. Research."

Nat smiled briefly. "True. But I don't think any of those  
were major motivators for me. If I had wanted to do real medical  
research I would have gone on, done graduate work, got a position  
in a teaching hospital where I could pursue the work properly,  
with funding and equipment. I had the opportunity for that, and  
I didn't take it. I just trained as a coroner and got to work.  
I think, when I did become interested in research - in your case  
\- it was mostly a sign that I was no longer satisfied with being  
a coroner. I was casting around for a change, but I didn't know  
that, so I didn't pursue it sensibly, think out what I really  
wanted to do."

Nick seemed to have run out of questions. Nat waited, but he  
said nothing, apparently unready to break the silence, or to say  
why he had come. Perhaps it was her turn to ask polite questions.

"And you? Have you enjoyed life in Paris?" He looked  
at her in surprise, and she added, "I assumed that was where  
you went when you left Toronto."

"I did, initially," said Nick. "It's been more  
or less my home base. But I've been various places since then.  
I've avoided big cities for the most part. I needed to spend some  
time alone, to think things through." He fell silent again,  
grimacing as he took an absent-minded sip from his wineglass.

"Have you continued to look for a cure?" Nat asked.  
"There are very good medical research facilities in Paris.  
I thought you might hook up with one."

"No. I took a break from that as well. I was rather discouraged  
after our failures. For the first time I found myself wondering,  
what if there was no cure? What would I do then? And I realised  
that I was no longer sure of my motives in wanting to be mortal.  
Perhaps I could regain my soul, my humanity, without making it  
depend on a cure for my physical condition. Perhaps the change  
had to come from inside."

"I think you're probably at least partly right, Nick,"  
Natalie said. "Whether or not there is a physical cure for  
your condition, you can't let your happiness, your  spiritual  
progress, if that's the phrase I mean, depend on finding one.  
And very likely your frame of mind, in turn, will affect your  
physical condition."

Nick smiled at her. "What have you done with Natalie?  
That doesn't sound like the hard scientist I knew!"

Natalie smiled back, then became serious. "I was certain  
of a lot of things when you knew me, Nick. I was certain that  
medical conditions had no significant psychological component.  
I was certain the patient's psychological state had no effect  
on results. I was certain that cures for all diseases could be  
found simply through the development of the proper drugs; no other  
approach was required. Of course when all my patients were corpses  
I had no reason to think otherwise. Dealing with LIVING patients  
has taught me a lot fast. Drugs are helpful, but the mental state  
of the patient makes a huge difference to the results. Happy mothers  
have easier pregnancies, for example. Frightened mothers have  
much longer labours than calm ones. Women in labour who have a  
friend in the room with them give birth in half the time. There  
are physiological explanations for all this. But physiology isn't  
the reason; it's the symptom. The reasons are emotional."

She hesitated, and continued. "Something that's been on  
my mind, about my research on your condition, though, Nick. I  
was afraid that you might be discouraged by our lack of success,  
and it sounds as if you were. I think that's my fault. I did you  
a disservice in taking your case."

He looked at her sharply, a bit startled. "How?"

"I wasn't the person to help you. I think if I'd had the  
proper equipment, more help, some funding for the work - oh hell,  
I'm evading the point. Nick, if I had been a better scientist  
I would have stood a lot better chance of finding a cure. I'm  
not a scientist; I'm a doctor. I'm not a real researcher, and  
that's what you needed.

"For me it was a hobby, a way of finding what I wanted  
to do with my life. At least, that's what it was initially. But  
for you it was your life. I should have handed you off to someone  
who really knew what they were doing, right away. A researcher  
into blood disorders, or digestive anomalies." Nick began  
to smile, but she resisted smiling back.

"I mean it. I behaved irresponsibly. The cure was an interesting  
thing to pursue, it gave me something to do with my time besides  
autopsies and paperwork. And then I wanted to be the one to find  
it. But for your sake, I should have realised that it was the  
cure, not my job dissatisfaction or my ego, that mattered. I should  
have referred you to people who knew what they were doing, instead  
of pottering around amateurishly myself, and taking reckless risks  
with your life. I didn't help you, and I'm afraid I damaged your  
faith that a cure can be found.

"I owe you an apology for that. I'm glad to hear you're  
pursuing other avenues, and not letting your happiness depend  
on the hope of a cure. But if you want a cure, I am sure that  
one can be found, and soon, if you decide to keep looking. It  
just won't be found by me."

Nick was leaning back in his chair, toying with the stem of  
his wineglass. He was looking at her with mingled surprise and  
amusement as she finished. "And you really mean all that."  
Nat nodded. "You blame yourself for not finding a cure. For  
a condition I've had for 800 years."

"No." Nat shook her head. "I blame myself for  
misleading you, and myself, into thinking that I COULD find a  
cure, when I should have known I wasn't equipped to do so. And  
that my reasons for trying were personal, not scientific."

Nick kept his eyes on her face. "I think you're selling  
yourself short, Nat" he said. "You had other motives  
too."

Nat looked away, colouring slightly. "None that excused  
me."

"I mean your primary motive. You wanted to help me."

"That was among my motives, yes,"  
Nat said. "But if it had been primary, I would have realised  
sooner that I was completely out of my depth, and referred you  
elsewhere."

"Where else would you have referred me?"

Nat considered. "Based on what I now know, I would have  
advised you to wait. Medical science is experiencing a series  
of fundamental breakthroughs now; no one can predict where it  
will be in fifty years. The mapping of the human genome is just  
the beginning. In fifty years gene therapy will be commonplace.  
In a century nanotechnology will be curing diseases before they  
happen." She smiled at him. "By that time we may all  
be living as long as you do. But you have the money to fund proper  
research yourself. Wait fifty years, or even twenty-five, and  
hire a professional with a properly-equipped lab. If you want  
it, a cure can be found, and I think in the next century."  
She paused. "I kept my files on your case when I moved. If  
you'll give me a mail-drop address I'll send them to you, to pass  
on when the time comes, if you're still interested."

"Thank you," said Nick. He seemed a little taken  
aback. "It's not urgent. I'm at the Hotel Vancouver if you'd  
like to do that this week, but it can wait."

"I'll send them over tomorrow," Nat said. A brief  
silence fell. Nick seemed to have run out of questions for the  
moment, his thoughts elsewhere. He seemed no closer to disclosing  
the reason for his sudden reappearance. Nat sipped from her mug.  
"And you?" she eventually asked politely. "You've  
been well?"

"Oh. Yes. Fine." Nick's attention returned. "You  
know it's hard to damage me."

Physically, perhaps, she thought, but said, "You're still  
with the police?"

"No." Nick's voice was low; she could hardly hear  
his answer. He looked up at her, apparently awaiting her response.

"Mm?" Nat murmured noncommittally, taking a sip from  
her mug. Whatever he wanted to tell her, he would, eventually;  
and perhaps more quickly if she did not try to draw him out.

Nick paused so long she thought he had decided not to speak,  
then said in a voice so low she at first didn't hear him, "I  
began to think I was bad luck. Losing two partners in a year seemed  
more than careless. I felt as if everyone who trusted me died.  
So I - withdrew, while I thought things over."

There had been a time when Natalie would have been unwilling  
to let Nick wallow in his guilt; would have argued with him about  
his misplaced sense of responsibility for his partners' deaths.  
But it had been pointless then, and would be now. It was Nick's  
problem to work out. She waited a moment in respectful silence  
before answering. "I missed Schanke very much," she  
said. "He was a good man. I still think of him. I didn't  
know Tracy as well, but I know you were very fond of her. It must  
have been very hard for you to lose both of them, and so close  
together."

He looked at her in surprise. She realised, with a touch of  
sadness, that he must have expected her to argue with him, tell  
him he should not feel as he felt. How sure she had been in those  
days how they both should act and feel.

"It was," he said. "Very hard. I -" he  
took a breath and exhaled. "I keep on outliving people. And  
I can't seem to prevent it. Even when I don't cause their deaths,  
they die."

Natalie regarded him with sympathy. "It's what we do,  
you know," she said gently.

Nick looked discouraged. "It seems to happen more often  
when I'm around, though."

"It happens more often in police work," said Nat.  
"It's not a low-risk occupation."

Nick nodded. "I do know that. But still, I seem to bring  
danger with me. To anyone close to me." He looked at her.  
Nat waited, but he had finished.

He was still beautiful, she could not help but notice. His  
blonde hair was luminous even in the dim light of the café.  
His loose jacket did not conceal his broad shoulders and graceful,  
firmly-muscled form. He held himself with his old unconscious,  
catlike confidence, even now, in unfamiliar territory and uncertain  
of his welcome. His face had the innocent charm she remembered.  
And he had been a decent person, if a troubled one, and as good  
a friend to her as he could be under difficult circumstances.  
She did not blame herself for falling in love with him, all those  
years ago.

Nick took a deep breath, as if gathering his strength. When  
had pretending to breathe, mimicking the use of breath to show  
emotion, become second nature to him? Nat wondered. Or was it  
just a habit he had never broken? She had never asked. There were  
so many questions she had never asked; and suddenly there had  
not been time. She realized he had begun to speak.

"Which brings me to why I'm here," Nick said.

Natalie looked politely inquiring.

"There's a lot I want to say, about - everything. But  
first of all, most of all, I came to say that I'm very glad I  
didn't kill you. And I'm very sorry I came so close."

"So am I. Glad, and sorry." Nat's voice was quiet.

Nick looked down at his hands on the table. "You have  
a right to be angry. I knew the risk, and took it anyway, and  
you nearly died because of my irresponsibility."

Nat shook her head. "Nick. I mean it. I appreciate your  
apology, but I am glad." She waited until he seemed ready  
to listen. "I really am. What happened, turned out very well  
for me. My life is a gift. I'm only sorry it took a near-death  
experience to get my attention."

He looked at her closely. "You do mean that." He  
considered her. "It's still no thanks to me. You risked yourself  
to save me, and I took advantage of you. I have never forgiven  
myself."

"I hope you do forgive yourself, Nick" Nat said gently.  
"Because I don't think that's what happened that night. At  
all."

Nick looked surprised, as if she had derailed him in mid-speech.  
He tried again. "How can I forgive myself? You nearly died.  
It was no thanks to me that you didn't. And I knew better. I ..."

Nat shook her head. "Nick." She waited until she  
had his attention, and spoke quietly and clearly. "It was  
by no means all your fault. I accept your apology for your part  
in the catastrophe, but I was considerably more to blame."

Nick sat up straight and looked at her incredulously. "Nat,  
that's ridiculous," Nick began. "How can you blame yourself  
when you were only trying to help me?"

She shook her head again. "Come on, Nick. You know that's  
not true." She paused, but he said nothing. She continued,  
"do you remember anything about that night?"

"Everything."

"You told me once that you can see everything a person  
is when you taste their blood. Do you remember what you saw in  
mine?"

"Everything," Nick said again. "I saw your compassion,  
your kindness, your loneliness, your pleasure in small things,  
your - simple human decency. I saw your love. For me. And I couldn't  
stop. I knew you wanted to help me, and I still couldn't keep  
from killing you. "

Natalie sighed. "Nick." She waited, again, until  
he was silent. "You didn't kill me. I'm right here."

After a moment he acknowledged this with a shrug. "Yes,  
but -"

"And if you remember everything you saw, you must know  
that I wasn't 'only' trying to help you." She blushed faintly,  
but looked at him steadily.

After a moment he nodded again. "Well, but -"

"I was trying to hold onto you, too."

"Yes, but - that was forgivable. You loved me. I knew  
it more clearly than ever when I tasted you. You were afraid I  
was going to leave you without a word. You were desperate. And  
it was all my fault you were in that state."

"No, Nick, it wasn't. It was my fault. That's what I wanted  
to say to you. That's why I wanted to meet you tonight."  
She took a breath. "Nick, I have always wanted to apologize  
to you for what I did that night."

He looked at her blankly. "Apologize to me? What for?  
You're the one who nearly died!"

"Yes, but I forced you into it. I pressed you past what  
I knew you could stand. I used every manipulative trick in the  
book. For God's sake, Nick, I all but said that I'd kill myself  
if you left me! That's the lowest kind of emotional blackmail.  
It was contemptible." She took a breath to calm herself.

"It was no way to treat someone I loved. It was no way  
to treat anyone. I have been so ashamed, all these years, for  
how I acted that night. I've waited five years to say this to  
you. I'm glad to finally have the chance. Nick, I am so sorry."

Nick looked at her in astonishment. Nat faced him for another  
moment, then looked away, taking another sip of her milk. He watched  
her and after a moment reached across and touched her arm. Even  
through her sweater his fingers were cold, she noted sadly. No  
miracles there. "Nat. I don't see how you can say that. You  
were more courageous than anyone I know. You risked your life  
for me. For us."

She shook her head, not looking at him. 'No. What I did was  
the act of a coward. I knew I was about to lose you, and I tried  
to manipulate you into staying. I offered you the only thing I  
could think of that might make you stay with me. I loved you -  
whatever I thought that meant - and I had allowed my life to narrow  
down to nothing but you. That was not your fault; it was mine.  
I was terrified of losing you. I knew how vulnerable you were  
that night. I knew you wouldn't turn me down. I hoped to bind  
you to me. I acted like a coed doing her best to get pregnant  
so her boyfriend won't leave her. It was - despicable." She  
set down her mug and looked at him fully.

"I was desperate, and I let desperation make my choices  
for me. That's not an excuse. I spent a long time in hospital,  
and later, thinking about it. Eventually I accepted that I had  
done a bad thing. I'd always thought I was a strong person. I'm  
not as strong as I thought I was. I forgave myself in the end,  
and moved on. But I've always wanted to apologize to you. I never  
thought, that night, of the damage it would do you, if you did  
anything that hurt me."

She looked away, toying with the handle of her mug. "I  
was never sure you felt about me the way I wanted you to, but  
I knew you were very fond of me, and that I meant something special  
to you. Hurting me would do you enormous damage. But I didn't  
think of that. I just did my best to hang on to you by whatever  
means, without caring what it might do to either one of us. I  
should have had the courage to accept the inevitable and let you  
go. I should have had the love to do that." She looked at  
him again. Her eyes were bright with tears. "Nick, I'm sorry.  
I'm so sorry. I hope you're okay."

Nick looked at her soberly for a long moment. "This isn't  
the conversation I thought we were going to have." He paused,  
setting down his wine glass, and leaned towards her, speaking  
earnestly. "I accept your apology. But Nat, I never thought  
you were perfect. I knew you had - mortal - weaknesses. I knew  
I was a temptation to you. My main thought that night, and later,  
was that I should have left before my uncertainty, my mixed signals,  
drove you so far that you forgot your principles. I am sorry I  
couldn't resist you. You were offering me what I had wanted and  
an excuse to take it, too. I just didn't have the strength to  
say no.

He paused, feeling out his next words. "Neither of us  
were at our best that night. We both have regrets. Can we simply  
accept that, and move on? We both learned a great deal. For that  
alone, I must thank you. I hope you can forgive yourself, and  
me, as easily as I forgive you."

Natalie looked at him and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Nick waited to see if she was going to answer. When she did  
not, he spoke again, his voice quiet. "I have another thing  
to apologise for, Natalie." He waited until she looked up.  
"I said we would be together. And then I left you there,  
alone. I am sorry for that. It seemed best at the time, but I  
am afraid it caused you pain."

She was looking down at her folded hands when he finished.  
After a moment she looked up. "It did."

He waited; she took a breath, but said nothing more. "Tell  
me, Nat," he said. Natalie turned her head away, uncertain  
how much more she wanted to say. She had already accomplished  
what she wanted to do with their meeting; she had apologized for  
what she had done. It seemed pointless revisit the pain she had  
felt at his disappearance. And she was not sure she wanted to  
reveal how vulnerable she had been to him, though he probably  
knew already.

Nick said again, "tell me, unless you'd really rather  
not talk about it. I'd like to leave nothing unsaid. I never wanted  
to hurt you. After all this time, I at least owe it to you to  
listen." He looked at her steadily.

Nat considered. Perhaps it was better for him to hear how his  
disappearance had hurt her. He might think twice about doing the  
same to someone else, in future. And though she had recovered,  
perhaps she might still feel better for telling him. Finally she  
nodded. "If you wish."

She took a breath, and thought back. "I want to tell you  
it's all right, Nick, that I understand. But it isn't, and I don't.  
It's much easier to forgive the fact that I nearly died. I gave  
you license to kill me, after all, though to be honest I didn't  
think you would. But your disappearance felt like a betrayal.  
It affected everything I thought of you.

"You said we'd be together, whatever happened. And I never  
heard from you again. I called you from the hospital when I was  
well enough to pick up a phone, and your number was disconnected.  
All they knew at the precinct was that you'd resigned that day.  
The captain had heard you'd left town. No one knew where you were.

"It was a month before I got out of the hospital. I hoped  
so much to find a note, anything, from you at the apartment, but  
there was nothing. I was still too weak to do much but lie in  
bed, and try to sleep, and wonder where you were. A nurse came  
in once a day to make me eat; I just didn't see the point. I spent  
a long time recuperating. Most of it I spent crying. I felt so  
stupid. I watched the phone to make it ring. Hated anyone who  
called that wasn't you. I checked the mail twice a day. All those  
adolescent things you've probably forgotten, if you ever did them.

"When I started to get my strength back I got angry. I  
felt like everything I'd believed about you, everything I thought  
was true about how you felt about me, was a lie. I thought about  
all the other women who had trusted you, whom you'd loved, and  
raped, and murdered." Nick inhaled sharply and she looked  
at him briefly. "You'd told me enough, in bits and pieces,  
over the years, but I'd discounted it all. Now I didn't. But the  
worst part was, I didn't care about them. I didn't even care what  
it made you.

"All I cared about was, I'd thought I was different. But  
was I? Or had you reverted to type? It seemed I been seduced and  
abandoned like all the rest. At least I hadn't been abandoned  
in death; but even that was a close call. I knew that you cared  
for me, but I certainly wasn't the first thing on your mind. And  
for so long, you'd been the first thing on mine.

"I felt like a fool. I had duped myself. I had nearly  
lost my life. And I had spent six years never pressing you, never  
confronting you - until that awful night. I hoped so hard for  
so long that somehow it would work out and we would be together  
if only I didn't push you too hard. And in the end it seemed that  
you'd showed me what you really felt by walking away without a  
word.

"It was my fault I hung on so hard, let it go on so long.  
But when I finally accepted that you were really gone it hurt  
so badly. I took a long time to get over it. Eventually I was  
talked into seeing a counsellor. I told her everything I could  
tell her, and that helped a lot. She helped me see how my own  
choices had brought me to where I was, and how I could learn to  
make better choices in future. She gave me hope. Eventually I  
recovered. I moved to Vancouver, and I put my life back together.

"I forgave you, eventually. I'd always known that you  
were fighting demons. I'd hoped I could help you do that, but  
I always knew, though I tried not to think about it, that I might  
be a casualty of that battle instead. My pain, even my near-death,  
were predictable. The way I came to feel about how I'd acted that  
last night, I couldn't help but think that I deserved it. But  
it wouldn't have hurt so much if you'd said goodbye."

There was a long silence when she finished. She looked up.  
Nick's eyes were haunted. He appeared to be in almost physical  
pain. "Nick, I'm sorry," she said at once. "I didn't  
mean to-"

He waved her apology away and shook his head. "No. You  
were right to tell me. I did need to hear it. It took me a long  
time to recover as well, but at least I knew where you were. There's  
one thing you must know, Natalie. You were unique in my experience.  
If that weren't true, I wouldn't be here now. And for what little  
it's worth, I didn't get in touch because I promised not to."

"LaCroix?" Natalie guessed.

"LaCroix," Nick agreed. "He persuaded me that  
it was best for both of us. I was not strong enough to resist  
him. He promised, in turn, that if I wished, in five years, to  
contact you again, he would not put any obstacles in my way. Of  
course he hoped I would forget. I am, truly, sorry for the pain  
I caused you, Natalie. If I'd known, I would, I hope, have acted  
differently."

"Well, it was horrible, but it's over," said Natalie.  
"I wouldn't have spoken of it if you hadn't asked. I did  
eventually see how much of it I had brought on myself. I was too  
stubborn for my own good. I could have let go sooner, and recovered  
much faster. So even that wasn't entirely your fault." She  
felt, surprisingly, much better than she had. A knot of unresolved  
pain seemed to have dissolved inside her in the telling, leaving  
her feeling almost light-hearted. Nick had been right to press  
her to talk about that terrible time.

"It's generous of you to say so, Nat. But I behaved like  
an utter jerk, and I'm sorry."

Nat nodded. "I won't argue with you there. You could at  
least have sent chocolates. Honestly!"

Nick laughed, and sobered, looking at her. He pushed his wineglass  
to one side, and looked at her mug. "Are you actually going  
to finish that?"

Nat glanced with distaste at the cooled, skinned milk remaining.  
"I think I'm done."

He stood up and held out his hand. "Then come. If it's  
warm enough for you, let's go for a walk. It's too pleasant an  
evening to spend it all inside." She nodded and stood, pulling  
on her coat as she rose.

He turned to her once they were outside, saying, "I thought  
we might walk along -" he stopped, inhaled sharply and stared  
at her. "You're pregnant!"

Natalie felt herself blush. "Yes," she said baldly.  
"Three months." Nick continued to stare at her, speechless.  
Finally, she turned away and began walking towards the park. Nick  
caught up to her side. "How did you know?" she asked  
curiously. "I'm barely showing yet. Not at all in this coat."

"Your scent," Nick answered briefly. "It's quite  
distinctive. It was muffled by the other odors in the cafe, but  
it's unmistakable now. Though I should have guessed before; I've  
never seen you drink milk willingly."

"I still don't drink it willingly'," said Nat.  
"Can all"

"Of course. No vampire will feed from a pregnant woman.  
For the same reason hunters won't kill does in season - it cuts  
down the size of the herd. It's a very old rule."

Natalie digested this. They walked a block in uncomfortable  
silence. Nick broke it as they waited for the light. "Artificial  
insemination?" Natalie looked at him in blank surprise and  
he looked embarrassed. "I'm grasping at straws, aren't I."

"Well, it wouldn't be most people's first guess."

Nick's gaze fastened on the trees across the street. "I  
suppose - I didn't realize how much I'd hoped you would wait for  
me."

Natalie bit her lip to control herself. It was no use. "Wait  
for you?" she said incredulously. "Is that what you  
expected? I had no reason to think I would ever see you again.  
I haven't heard a word from you in five years. You didn't even  
send me a card in the hospital..."

Nick broke in. "I told you I wanted to, but - "

'Oh sure." Nat was furious now. "There were all sorts  
of things you WANTED to do. There were a thousand things I'm sure  
you MEANT to say. But you never did any of them, did you? You  
never said any of them. I was supposed to read your mind? Wait  
for you? What the hell for?"

There was a pause. Nat struggled to calm down. Eventually Nick  
spoke. "So you're saying it wasn't artificial insemination?"

Nat stared at him, incredulous. Nick was smiling at her. Helplessly,  
she began to laugh. Finally she hiccuped to a stop and dried her  
eyes, leaning weakly against a lamppost. Nick watched her, amused.  
"No, Nick," she said when she could. "It wasn't."  
She stood up and straightened her coat. "Shall we keep walking?"

Nick gestured ahead on the sidewalk. "After you. You're  
sure you're not going to strain yourself?"

"No, walking is good for pregnant ladies, even of my advanced  
age." They strolled through the pools of yellow streetlight.  
Their silence felt much more companionable now. Nick watched the  
play of light and shadow on her face.

"Tell me more?" he suggested.

Nat sighed. "Okay. I don't know where to start."

"How about, who is the father, and why isn't he here watching  
over you every minute like an anxious hen with one chick, the  
way I would be if it were my child you were carrying?" Nick  
suggested. "Sorry," he added at her look. "But  
who is he?" He looked at her sharply. "Are you married?"

"No." Nat tried to order her thoughts.

"Is he married?" Nick asked patiently.

"What? No, of course not!"

"Sorry," Nick said again.

"If you'll stop interrogating me, I'll tell you about  
it," Nat said.

Nick nodded. "Go ahead."

Nat sighed. How much should she tell him? "He's a doctor.  
I met him through work. He's left the country. He didn't know  
I was pregnant." Perhaps the bald details would be enough  
to hold him. It wasn't as if it was any of Nick's business.

"You didn't tell him you were pregnant?"

"When he left, I didn't know either."

Nick was silent for a moment. "And you can't send him  
a singing telegram now?"

Nat smiled against her will. "Do you want the whole story?"  
Nick nodded.

She considered. It would be a relief to talk to someone. Well,  
she corrected herself, it would be nice to talk to Nick in particular.  
Partly, if she were honest with herself, for reasons of pride.  
Let him know she HAD moved on with her life; he hadn't crippled  
her after all. She had a base but entirely human desire not only  
to prove that she was okay, thanks, but also, if he felt any jealousy  
at all, to repay him some of the pain she had felt over him. But  
even more, it would just be good to talk to him. To let her guard  
down around him, talk about what really mattered to her, as she'd  
never really done when they were in Toronto.

They had paused under a tree. Nick looked at her, waiting.  
Nat nodded in assent. "Okay. Shall we walk through the park?"  
They turned onto one of the paved paths under the trees.

Nat began. "Marcus is a doctor. He's spent most of his  
career with Médécins San Frontieres in trouble spots  
all over the world."

"That sounds admirable."

"Yes. That kind of dedication is rare. It takes very special  
people to do that kind of work." She paused, ordering her  
thoughts. "Anyway. He came back to Canada a year ago because  
he had come down with a particularly nasty case of malaria. He  
had a drug-resistant strain, and it took a long time to cure it.  
He was in Sudan at the time, and medical supplies were hard to  
get, and - well, he nearly died. Even after the disease was cured,  
he was too weak to stay in Sudan while he recovered; there weren't  
the facilities to nurse him back to health.

"So he came home to recuperate, and stayed with his sister,  
who's an ob/gyn specialist like me; we'd met through work. She  
introduced us at a small party she had, when he was well enough  
to socialize a bit, and we hit it off." Nat smiled. "I  
think she was hoping to set us up, and it worked."

"We became friends, went to movies and so on for a while,  
and gradually we became close. It was - so reassuring for me.  
I'd thought I was never going to meet anyone. I was afraid I was  
too old, and too scared after - after everything that happened  
before." She glanced up at Nick. "I'm not saying that  
to make you feel bad. What happened between us was as much, more,  
my fault as yours. But that made it even harder for me to get  
over. If I could make such major mistakes once, how could I trust  
myself, trust my judgment, again?"

Nick took a breath, but Natalie went on. "And I'm shy  
around men as a rule anyway. I don't meet many to begin with.  
Coroners only meet corpses; ob/gyn specialists only meet women,  
and VERY married men. But Marcus seemed to like me just fine.  
We made each other laugh a lot. He respected my commitment to  
my work, and he never treated me as if I was worth less than he  
was." Nat paused, remembering. "It felt like a drink  
of cold water in the desert, to be around him. I felt refreshed  
in every cell. I'd recovered physically, and I'd made a lot of  
changes in my attitudes, in the few years before I met him, but  
when I started spending time with Marcus it felt like - really  
coming back to life. Joining the world of the living again."

She paused. "So where is this paragon of virtue now?"  
asked Nick coldly. She stopped walking and turned to look at him.  
"Nick. You wanted to know about him. I didn't want to tell  
you much. But if I'm going to say anything at all, I want you  
to understand the whole relationship."

She waited for him to respond. Nick hesitated, and nodded.  
"I'm sorry. It's a lot to digest all at once."

Nat waited a moment. When Nick said nothing further, she continued.  
"When we started seeing each other seriously -"

"You mean sleeping together," Nick said. He still  
sounded strained.

"Yes," Nat answered, ignoring his tone. "Well,  
before that. When it was pretty clear we were going to start soon.  
Marcus wanted to be sure that I understood, before we got in too  
deep, that he might not be staying in Canada. He wanted to be  
with me, but he still felt that his work was with MSF, and that  
he would probably return there. So we decided to give it a trial.  
He took a job as an emergency room doctor, for which he's very  
well qualified after ten years in the field. He would see if he  
liked that, and I would think about going with him if he decided  
to return to Africa, or Kosovo, or wherever he felt called to  
go this time.

"We spent several months together. And it was - great,  
in a lot of ways. I felt as if I had a best friend. He was unfailingly  
kind, and respectful, and decent to me. He never lied to me or  
shut me out. We had great conversations. We had fun together.

"But after a couple of months it began to be clear that  
he didn't enjoy working ER here. It really bothered him to have  
access to the resources we had here, compared to what little is  
available to the people in most of the world. And so many of the  
people he treated were prosperous, and older, and had brought  
their own problems on themselves, he felt, by overindulgence.  
He told me once that it really felt wrong, to him, to be treating  
self-indulgent rich men instead of saving the lives of malnourished  
children with easily treatable diseases that would kill them,  
if he weren't there. Or that's how he felt, at least.

"He's a bit of a Puritan, really." Nat smiled reminiscently.  
"He wants to save people who haven't got a chance otherwise.  
But he rather disapproves of people who HAVE had chances, and  
haven't used them. He wants to bring medicine to the millions  
who have no access to it, or as many as he can reach in a lifetime.  
He wants to reform the health care system of the whole world,  
I think; but in the meantime, do as much good as he can for the  
desperate."

"A Puritan, or a Crusader," Nick suggested.

Nat paused, and glanced at him. "Perhaps. I hadn't thought  
about it."

"So then?" Nick prompted.

"Then." Nat thought. "Well. It became clear  
that he really wanted to return to the field. And I hadn't been  
thinking, that hard, about going with him; I was hoping he would  
stay in Vancouver. But I thought about it, very hard, for the  
next couple of months. And it became clear to me that I really  
didn't want to go.

"I was ashamed. I have so much respect for his dedication,  
and it turns out I just don't have it myself. I thought I should  
want to go. But - I've just seen too much death already.

"It takes all kinds," Nick said gently.

"I suppose. Still, I felt that I should have wanted to  
go. But I'm happy here. I like my work. I have friends. I get  
to see happy women and babies every day. The city is beautiful.  
I've set down roots; I don't think I ever did, in Toronto. I want  
to stay here.

"And - and this is something else I'm ashamed of - he'd  
told me about the living and working conditions in most of the  
places he's been. I didn't - I don't - want to live like that.  
I like having running water, and a shower, and being able to go  
for walks at night, and rent videos sometimes. I know this is  
all trivial, and shouldn't matter to me. But it does. I don't  
live a luxurious life but I don't want to give up all comfort  
if I don't have to. I don't have the dedication to think that  
any sacrifice is worth it, as he does. Also, I was - afraid. I  
don't want to work with bombs and gunfire going off around me.  
I don't want to be taken hostage by paramilitaries. I don't want  
to show up on the front page of the newspapers. I know I'm going  
to die someday, but I don't want it to be tomorrow.

"Marcus just doesn't think that way. He thinks he can  
do more good out in the field. He's probably right. And he thinks  
he'll die when his number is up, wherever he is. He's probably  
right about that too.

"But I just didn't want to go."

"Perhaps you're not called," Nick suggested. "Perhaps  
your calling is here, assisting women in childbirth. There's nothing  
wrong with that. There's a lot right with it. You help people  
every day. You save lives. Who is to say you're supposed to be  
doing something other than what you're doing?"

Nat nodded. "That's exactly what Marcus said. He didn't  
seem to lose any respect for me when it became clear that I didn't  
want to go. He said that we all have different tasks, and I should  
honour mine. It made me feel a little better about myself, though  
I still wonder, if I just had a little more courage ... anyway.  
I'll never forget that he said that." She blinked rapidly.

"You have a lot of courage, Nat. You wouldn't be here  
otherwise," said Nick. "Your courage gave you the will  
to live."

Nat smiled up at him briefly. "Thanks. Maybe. Anyway.  
He left for Sierra Leone, two months ago. I had a postcard from  
him in Amsterdam, where he spent a week gathering supplies before  
he set out for Africa. Nothing since. I know he's in-country,  
and it's difficult to maintain contact. I worry about him, some.  
But he's always come through okay before, or so I tell myself."

Nick waited, but she seemed to have finished. "Are you  
\- do you think of yourselves as a couple?" he asked.

"No," Nat said. She paused. "Or I would have  
said not. We agreed, when he left, that we were both free to find  
other partners if we wished. Though of course we will stay in  
touch, when we can. I can't imagine not wanting to be his friend.  
But - I can't help but feel that if he really loved me, he would  
have been happy to stay; it would have been unthinkable to do  
anything else. Or, if I'd really loved him, I would have been  
happy to go with him, even to Sierra Leone to get my head shot  
off. But that's not what either of us chose."

"That's a hard test to put love to," said Nick. "You  
had conflicting responsibilities and desires. Most people don't  
feel any sense of mission in their lives, so they never have to  
ask these questions. It doesn't mean you didn't love each other."

Nat was silent as they walked on. She nodded slowly. "I  
guess. Perhaps it just means there was something he loved more.  
It's hard to say. Love isn't as easy to label as I used to think."

They drew near a park bench. Nat hesitated when she saw it,  
and asked, "Would you like to sit down for a bit?"

"Yes, if you wouldn't mind. I'm tiring more easily lately.  
I'm sorry."

""You needn't apologize. You have to take care of  
yourself." Nick sat at one end of the bench; Nat settled  
towards the middle, with her coat wrapped closely around her.  
Nick looked at her.

"But you still think you may be a couple?"

" I don't know. We agreed we weren't, but now it turns  
out that I'm pregnant. I don't know if that changes things."

"I can see that it might."

"Yes." Nat sighed. "I don't know. I thought  
over what I ought to do when I first discovered I was pregnant.  
Once I decided to keep the child - which took about one second,"  
she added to Nick's startled expression - "I knew my first  
priority was the child's welfare. And obviously it would be best  
for him or her to have two parents."

She fell silent. Nick prodded gently. "And? What did you  
do?"

"I wasn't sure what to do. I thought of taking Marcus  
up on his offer to go to Sierra Leone. But if I don't want to  
go there myself, I certainly don't want to go there pregnant,  
or raise a child there. The best thing for the child, I think,  
is to be raised in Vancouver. It's got to be better than being  
raised in a succession of war zones.

"I wondered if I should simply not tell Marcus, but that  
was the coward's way out. He has a right to know he will have  
a child, so he can make his own decisions on what to do next.

"So I have tried to get in touch with him in Sierra Leone.  
But the phone number I had isn't working. I've emailed him, and  
written to him care of MSF headquarters, and also care of the  
base of operations in Sierra Leone. I've done what I can."

"And what did you say?" Nick asked.

"I told him everything that was on my mind. One mistake  
I made with you, Nick," she said, turning to look at him,  
"was that I never really told you everything I thought, or  
felt, until the last minute when it seemed like my last chance  
to hang onto you somehow. I was afraid to, for fear you would  
reject me. But my fear kept me in a constant state of rejection,  
I see now - I was living with the very thing I feared, because  
I refused to talk to you. In fact, if you had rejected me, I would  
have survived it and gone on, but I didn't see that." She  
looked away from him and focussed on her hands, clasped together  
in her lap.

"I decided, while I was recovering, never to make that  
mistake again. I would always tell anyone who was important to  
me how I felt, and what I was thinking. If this meant they - distanced  
themselves, well, it was better I should know how they felt, than  
live in a fantasy, or in fear. And the sooner I know the truth,  
the sooner I can deal with it and go on."

Nick smiled. "And you say you have no courage," he  
said.

Nat smiled slightly. "I may have acquired some. In any  
case. My letter told Marcus that I was pregnant. I said I still  
didn't want to go to Sierra Leone, particularly given my medical  
condition - "

Nick looked at her and opened his mouth to speak, but she continued  
\- "I'll tell you in a minute; it's not serious, as long as  
I stay in reach of Western medicine. I said that I understood  
and accepted that even under the circumstances, Marcus might well  
not want to come back to Vancouver. But if he was willing to come  
back, I would be happy to marry him." Nick inhaled sharply,  
and Nat looked up. "Well, Nick, what else would I do? The  
best thing I can do for my child is provide her, or him, with  
a good father and a stable home. If I can't do it, I can't; but  
it's my first responsibility." Nick hesitated, and nodded.  
"I also said that if he didn't want to live in Vancouver  
full time, but was willing to spend part of each year here and  
part working overseas, I was willing to accept that, though it  
wouldn't be my first choice."

"It doesn't sound ideal," said Nick.

"No. I always thought that, if I married, it would be  
to someone who was going to be around all the time. But I think  
even a part-time father would be better than one who's never there  
at all, so I'm willing to go that far."

"You don't speak as if you really want him here,"  
Nick commented. "You speak only of what would be best for  
the child."

Nat paused, and considered. "I'm not sure. It was wonderful  
to be with him, and I'm very glad of the time I spent with him.  
But if what he really needs is a woman who wants to work by his  
side in the war zones of the world, I'm not her. Perhaps when  
I was younger, but not now. And if what I really need is a man  
who's content to stay in Vancouver and make a stable home, well,  
for all his many virtues, it isn't Marcus. And once we agreed  
to part, I pretty much closed the door on the relationship, at  
least, on thinking of him as more than a dear friend.

"If he were to come back I would be able to open up to  
him again, I think; over time. But I haven't heard from him yet.  
I won't know how to feel until I do."

"When did you try to get in touch?" Nick asked.

"Five weeks ago, once I was sure I was pregnant. At that,  
I may have been premature. " To Nick's questioning look,  
she added, "Even now, I'm not quite out of the 'miscarriage  
window' yet; the time when I'm most likely to miscarry, if I'm  
going to. And older women are more likely to miscarry. I wondered  
about waiting until I was pretty sure I wasn't going to lose the  
baby, before I got in touch. But I decided he had a right to know  
as soon as I did."

"You're not an 'older woman', Nat; don't be silly"  
said Nick. "And you're healthy and take care of yourself.  
Surely you don't need to worry."

"That helps, but I am elderly for a first-time mother.  
And then there's the, um. The medical condition. I have a blood  
disorder which can affect pregnancy. It's not serious otherwise.  
But it makes miscarriage more likely."

Nick frowned. "You never told me this!"

"I didn't know, when I knew you. I'm grateful for it,  
though, because it saved my life. My blood clots very easily.  
That's why I didn't hemorrhage and die after that night five years  
ago. The full transfusion at the hospital saved me, but if the  
blood hadn't clotted quite quickly at the wound it would still  
have been too late. The doctors told me later."

Nick looked at her, appalled. "I had no idea it was so  
close."

Nat raised an eyebrow. "No? You believed I was dead. I  
heard you say so while I lay on the floor. Just before it all  
went black."

"At first, I did think so. I knew I'd taken too much."  
Nick stopped. "I was devastated," he added in a low  
voice. " I asked LaCroix to stake me. I didn't want to live."

"LaCroix was there?"

"He came in. After."

"But he didn't stake you," Natalie said.

"No. He hit me with the stake. Knocked me halfway across  
the room. And he asked if you were really worth dying for."

Nick paused. His mind returned to the loft that night.

****

 _LaCroix standing over him, lying crumpled against the wall,  
too weak to stand. Natalie draped lifelessly in LaCroix' arms.  
LaCroix looking at him in disgust, saying "Nicholas, don't  
be a fool. Does this mortal really matter so much to you that  
you will die for her?" Nick nodding, too overcome to speak,  
tears trickling down his face. LaCroix shaking his head in weary  
contempt, saying "your despair is premature. Her life can  
still be saved. Once again, Nicholas, you leave your messes for  
me to clean up."_

****

Nick returned to the present with a start. Nat was looking  
at him inquiringly. "He picked you up and flew off. I called  
after him to promise that he would not bring you across, but he  
didn't answer.

"By the time he returned, it was nearly dawn. I had opened  
the shutters. I was ready to face the sun.

"He swore to me that you were alive, and receiving good  
medical care. He promised that he had not brought you across.  
I thanked him for caring for you.

"'Don't be a fool', he said. 'I don't care for her. I  
saved her life because otherwise, it's clear you would find a  
way to kill yourself.' He was right, of course."

Nat watched him, speechless, as he told the story. "I  
always thought it was you who took me to the hospital," she  
said finally. "I assumed."

Nick shook his head. "I was in no condition. LaCroix saved  
your life. He closed the shutters and stayed with me for the next  
five days, talking, keeping me fed. He even supplied me with steer's  
blood. I suppose he saved my life as well.

"He convinced me, in the end, that I was not a good influence  
on you. Well, you were nearly dead; no thanks to me you weren't  
completely dead; I wasn't hard to persuade.

"And he convinced me that if I were to stay in your company,  
I would continue to endanger you."

Nat shook her head. "I don't think so. I think I would  
have been okay. I'd learned - "

Nick looked at her and she slowly stopped speaking. "Really,  
Nat? You've changed a lot in the last five years. But if I had  
been there, would you have changed and learned as much as you  
have?"

Nat breathed out slowly, and considered. Eventually she said  
sadly, "perhaps not. But it would have meant a lot to me."

Nick nodded. "I know. It would have meant a lot to me  
too. But I'm not sure he was wrong."

Nat stared out at the trees, swathed now in evening mist. "You  
could at least have sent me a get-well card," she said eventually.  
"A teddy bear. Even just a note saying "sayonara, it's  
been swell." "

"I could have," Nick agreed. "In retrospect,  
I believe I should have. But I let LaCroix talk me into believing  
that a clean break was best. I was still very weak, and I allowed  
him to lead me. If I was wrong, I'm sorry."

"I don't understand why YOU were weak," said Natalie.  
"Nobody had nearly killed you."

"Emotionally I was devastated," Nick said. "You  
meant a lot to me, and I was overcome with guilt. Thanks to me,  
you were at death's door. I couldn't get past that. I was suicidal.  
LaCroix talked me through it. I believe I may have allowed him  
his former dominance over me then because I knew that otherwise,  
I would not survive. And - I really didn't want to die."

There was a long silence. Nat broke it. "Neither did I.  
We were both under a lot of stress at that time, Nick. I'm glad  
we both survived it."

"I know, "said Nick. "That wasn't what either  
of us intended. We should have spoken more, a lot more, in the  
years before. I've regretted that more than almost anything. All  
the chances we had just to talk, and we never took them."  
Nat nodded, looking abstractedly before her, remembering.

"I do have one question, Nick," she said finally,  
without looking at him. "One thing I never understood. Why  
were you so unwilling to bring me across? You had done it for  
many others. Did I mean so much less to you?"

She looked at him as she finished speaking. His head was turned  
towards her, face hidden in shadow; she could not read his expression.  
His voice, when he spoke, was gentle. "Not at all, Nat. You  
meant so much more. You were everything I wanted to be. You were  
my hope of humanity, of life. Everything you were, everything  
that mattered about you, would be lost if you joined me in this  
darkness. You don't know what it's like; I do. I couldn't do that  
to you. I don't regret that decision."

Nat said nothing for some time. Nick watched her quietly, allowing  
her time to respond. Finally she said in a low voice, "you  
want me to believe that if I'd mattered less to you, you would  
have done it."

"Perhaps," Nick said. "But if you'd mattered  
less to me, I wouldn't have been close enough for you to ask."

"What about Tracy? You were about to bring her across  
when I found you," Nat said. She added immediately, "I'm  
sorry. That's petty of me. But it has bothered me."

"I felt responsible for Tracy's death," said Nick.  
"It was an impulse borne of guilt. But I'm not sure I would  
have gone through with it even if you hadn't interrupted. But  
if I had  it would have been easier with her because it  
would have meant nothing to me. If that makes sense."

"Sure it does," Nat said. "Like, it's easier  
to have sex with someone you don't care about than with someone  
with whom it would mean a commitment. Fewer consequences; far  
less frightening."

"More or less," Nick said. He looked at her oddly.  
"How would you know?"

Natalie smiled mischievously at him. "I read a lot."  
She added seriously, "if it's any help, Nick, you were right  
not to try to bring me across. I never wanted to be a vampire.  
I wanted to be with you, and I thought, then, that it wasn't too  
high a price to pay. Now I shudder to think how close I came.  
My life is a gift. I would have lost it by becoming a vampire,  
just as utterly as I would have by dying that night."

"That's exactly what I meant", Nick said. "What  
you would have become, if I had brought you across, would not  
have been what you are, or what you wanted to be. You would have  
regretted it bitterly. I could not do that to you."

Nat looked at him. "If that was your actual motive, then  
I appreciate it. I was never sure."

"Be sure," said Nick.

She nodded. They sat together for a moment longer, without  
speaking. Finally Nat shivered and put her hands in her pockets.  
"Could we start walking again? It's gotten a bit chilly.""

"Of course." Nick rose to his feet. "I'm sorry,  
I wasn't thinking."

They continued along the path towards the lights marking the  
far boundary of the park. "So why does a blood clotting disorder  
endanger your pregnancy?" Nick asked.

"There's a long technical answer, but basically it makes  
me more likely to miscarry. It also makes me more likely to have  
a stroke, or develop a blood clot at some inconvenient moment.  
I started taking blood thinners as soon as I knew I was pregnant,  
so I'm not liable to develop those complications. But the blood  
thinners themselves carry other risks. Hemorrhage in childbirth  
is the main one," Nat answered calmly.

Nick stared at her. "But - that sounds very dangerous,  
Nat! Are you sure you - "

"What, Nick?" Nat asked when he stopped suddenly.  
"Want to go through with this? Of course I'm sure. We lose  
very few mothers these days. I'm more worried about losing the  
baby, and I'm doing everything I can to avoid that. To be honest,  
what bothers me most is that the blood thinning drugs aren't compatible  
with the use of an epidural during labour, and from what I've  
seen in my practice, I'm going to want one."

Nick looked puzzled. "An epidural?"

"The greatest invention of the twentieth century. A gift  
straight from God to women. It's an anaesthetic used in childbirth  
that actually works. And I'll have to do without it! It seems  
so unfair. But I suppose your mother did, and she survived."  
Nat grinned at him. "So did you. Don't worry. It will all  
be fine."

Nick still appeared uneasy. "I suppose. It's your choice,  
after all. It just never occurred to me that there were still  
dangers to childbirth in this day and age. When I was born women  
died in childbirth all the time. But I never thought they still  
did."

"Well, they don't often. You needn't concern yourself,  
Nick. Honestly." They had reached the street and Nat turned  
to him. "I live just down that way a block or two, so why  
don't we say goodnight - "

Nick interrupted her. "Don't be silly, I'll walk you home.  
That is, if you don't mind."

Nat nodded. "I'm sorry to be such an early bird, Nick;  
I tire easily these days, and I need to be sure I'm getting enough  
rest."

"Of course. Don't think about it." They turned left  
and walked along the avenue. "You haven't heard from Marcus  
at all since you wrote?" Nick asked.

"No. I'm trying not to worry. Mail is unreliable, especially  
since he's somewhere out in the bush. The phones and email frequently  
don't work either. And even after he gets my message, it may take  
him awhile to respond. Still, in another week or so I will begin  
to wonder if the message made it there. Or if he's delaying his  
answer while he decides what to do."

Nick hesitated. "Do you want to marry him, Nat?"  
he finally asked.

Nat looked at him. "I think I already told you that, Nick."

"I'm not sure I understood."

"I wouldn't be thinking about marrying him if I weren't  
pregnant. But if he wants to marry me, I think we would be able  
to get along very well, and that he would be a good father,"  
Natalie answered.

"But you won't be devastated if he doesn't want to."

"No. I won't even think ill of him. I'll be disappointed,  
but - life is good. It will be good if he comes back to Vancouver.  
But it will be good if he doesn't, too."

Nick nodded, looking at her face. They had reached her building,  
and she reached into her pocket for her keys. He stood over her,  
ready to open the door once she had unlocked it. "Nat?"  
he said uncertainly. "It's been so good to talk to you. To  
see you so well. Can I see you again before I leave? There's so  
much more to say." He paused and looked at her, a trace of  
anxiety in his face.

Nat thought about it. "When?"

"Tomorrow evening?"

Nat shook her head. "I can't tomorrow, I'm having some  
people over to dinner for my birthday. The day after would be  
fine."

Nick closed his eyes in exasperation. "Your birthday!  
I forgot!"

"It's been five years, Nick, I would hardly expect you  
to remember. It's not like you remembered so regularly in Toronto,  
you know," she said in amusement.

"Um. I could come too?"

"Why this eagerness?" Nat asked. "Will another  
day matter?"

"No. I just - it's been so good to see you."

"Well, I'd be happy to ask you to join us, Nick, but all  
of these people knew Marcus, and you might be hard to explain."

"I'm an old friend from Toronto," Nick said instantly.  
"I came into town unexpectedly. You took pity on me and asked  
me along."

Natalie thought it over. It would be fun to have Nick there.  
To be honest, it would be good for her ego, too, since Marcus  
had gone back to Sierra Leone, and all her friends knew it. It  
would show that she did know other attractive men. An ignoble  
motive, but undeniable.

She looked up at Nick and detected a gleam of amusement in  
his expression. "What's so funny?" she demanded.

"I can be the blonde toyboy you ditched in Toronto when  
you came out here," Nick offered. "I can look pathetically  
devoted, and you can brush me off. Your friends will be green  
with envy, I promise."

Had he read her mind? Nat said, "actually, I wouldn't  
mind having a -" she paused, uncertain how to phrase it.

"Designated date? Male arm-ornament? Dependent cutie?  
Adoring puppy?" Nick suggested helpfully, grinning.

"No!" Nat said, exasperated. "At least - no.  
But -" she thought, and changed tack. "Nick, why are  
you so eager to come?"

Nick hesitated. Finally he seemed to come to a decision. "Because  
we've got so much left to talk about, Nat. We've just scratched  
the surface so far. There's a lot I haven't told you, about the  
last five years. I'd like - I don't know if it's possible, but  
I'd like to become friends. If we can. As much as we can. I know  
you may not feel the same way, and that you have other commitments.  
But I've really missed being able to talk to you."

Nat considered this. "I missed you too. But it isn't that  
simple. I don't think we can just pick up where we left off. In  
fact the idea makes me shudder."

"I wouldn't want to either. I'd like to start fresh, and  
do it right this time. If you're willing," Nick added.

Nat thought it over, and answered honestly. "The whole  
idea frightens me right now, Nick. You're moving very fast. Meeting  
for coffee once I can handle. There were things I needed to say  
to you, and I thank you for giving me the chance. But having you  
back in my life  I'm not sure. Even as a friend. That's  
where we started last time, and look what happened. And my life  
has moved on. I'm not sure I want to look back. I'm not saying  
no. But I would need to think about it."

Nick nodded. "I can understand that, and I won't press  
you. But I was hoping to move forward rather than back. As for  
tomorrow night, well, in the old days, I never met your friends."

Nat smiled sadly. "In the old days, I didn't have any."

"Perhaps. But it didn't even occur to me to ask what your  
life was like. Who else was in it. What you did when I wasn't  
around. I was consumed with my own problems, and never thought  
about you. I'd like to rectify that, if I could."

Nat thought it over. Was she being too cautious? What could  
happen? She would be surrounded by her friends, after all, and  
on her own ground. Still, she felt uncomfortable, as if she was  
being rushed into unfamiliar territory. Finally she decided to  
trust her instincts, and shook her head. "I need to think  
this over, Nick. I never expected to see you again at all. You've  
had five years to think about it. I've had two minutes."

Nick looked disappointed, but nodded and stepped back. "Of  
course. I'll be here until Sunday night if you'd like to talk  
again before I go."

Natalie felt suddenly downcast, and trusted her instincts again.  
She said immediately, "Of course I want to talk to you again  
before you go. I see no harm in that. If you'd like, we could  
get together for coffee or something on Saturday evening, and  
I could hand over the research files then too."

Nick relaxed, looking relieved. "I was afraid you didn't  
want to talk to me again at all, ever. Which is no more than I  
deserve. Would you like me to pick you up here at 8:00, and we  
could walk over to the café?"

Nat thought it over. "How about 7:00? I usually go to  
a movie on Saturdays. If we wanted, we'd have time to catch a  
late show."

"What, King Kong is back in the theatres?" Nick teased.

"Even worse," Nat smiled. "I haven't seen Mission  
Impossible 2 yet."

Nick winced. "Whatever my lady wishes," he said.  
"But perhaps we'll have a lot to talk about after all."

"You wish!" said Natalie. "I'll see you Saturday,  
then, Nick."

"I'll look forward to it." He held the door for her,  
watching until she gone through the double doors into the elevator,  
and turned away.

*********************

As Nick walked through the park towards his hotel a figure  
appeared beside him. "LaCroix," he said in a resigned  
tone, without turning his head. "I thought you said you were  
too revolted to watch."

"Curiosity overcame me, Nicholas," replied the silken  
voice. "So tell me, how is the good doctor?"

"She's doing very well," Nick said without expression.

"She has recovered from your betrayal, as I said she would?"

Nick was silent.

"She has gone on in her life without you?" LaCroix  
pressed. "She is taken up with her mortal concerns and has  
forgotten you?"

Nick looked up at this. "She hasn't forgotten me, LaCroix.  
But you're right; she has recovered and developed a life without  
me."

LaCroix nodded approvingly. "Dr. Lambert is a resilient  
woman with some strength of character. I knew that, left to herself,  
she would find her way."

Nick said nothing. LaCroix sighed. "Still blaming me.  
Nick, if it weren't for me, she would have died."

"I don't blame you for saving her life."

"But for keeping you out of it? Is she not better off  
without you, Nick? Answer me honestly." Nick's answer was  
inaudible; LaCroix raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"I said, I don't know. She is happier now than she was  
the last year in Toronto. Perhaps any year in Toronto. But it's  
not clear to me that she couldn't have been happy with me around.  
Perhaps happier."

"But she wasn't happy when you were." Nick shook  
his head and started to reply, but LaCroix cut him off. "There  
you have your answer, Nicholas. You had your chance. It didn't  
work. You were right to let her go."

Nick looked away. "I could at least have said goodbye.  
She hasn't forgiven me for leaving without a word."

"And if you had? Would that not have fanned the flame  
in her heart? Would it not have given her hope that you would  
return? As it was, she believed you did not care for her. She  
let go of you, and moved on. Could she have done that, if she  
still hoped?"

Nick hesitated. "I don't know," he finally said again.  
"I think I could have said goodbye. I could have done that  
much."

Silence fell between the two men as they walked. "So."  
LaCroix said at last. "What are your plans now?"

Nick was silent. LaCroix repeated, "Now, Nicholas. What  
are you going to do now? You've seen her. What next?"

Nick put his hands in his pockets and considered. "I'd  
like to become friends", he said. "I told her that.  
But do a better job of it this time."

"And is she willing?"

"She's not sure."

"If you are concerned for her welfare, Nicholas, ask yourself  
how such a friendship would benefit her," said LaCroix.

Nick was silent. "I don't know", he finally said  
again. "I would leave that to her. If she doesn't want it,  
I won't press her."

"So your plans are?" LaCroix said again.

"I'm not sure. Stay in the area awhile, and see what happens,"  
Nick said. "I'm ready to move on from Paris in any case.  
Vancouver looks pleasant enough."

"How long is awhile'?" LaCroix sounded exasperated.  
" A week? A decade? Forty or fifty years? While you watch  
your - friend - grow old, and sick, and die, and she, in turn,  
sees you remain ageless and beautiful? Do you think this would  
be a favour to her? Do you think you'll even want to remain in  
her life, in one city, that long? Fixity of purpose has never  
been your strong suit, Nicholas."

Nick sighed. "I don't know," he said again. "I  
don't know how long. I don't know if she'll want me here, or for  
how long. I don't know how it will work out."

"And this will assist her - how, Nicholas? Will she even  
welcome you here? She has, as they say now, 'got a life'. Will  
she want you in it?"

Nick hesitated. "I don't know. But I want to find out.  
If she doesn't want me here, I'll leave. But I've spent the last  
five years wishing I could just talk to her again. I'm not going  
to pass up a chance to do that, while I can. It's not for her,  
LaCroix. It's for me."

LaCroix looked at him closely. "As long as you are clear  
about your motives, Nicholas," he said. "Do you return  
to Paris before you take up this new hobby?"

Nick ignored the jibe. "Yes. There are some deBrabant  
Foundation details I'll need to deal with personally before I  
leave."

"Then I will see you on your return. Adieu, Nicholas."  
LaCroix stepped back and disappeared into the fog. Nicholas deBrabant  
walked on alone through the dripping trees.

###   
§§§§§§§§§§


	2. Five Years Later: the Vampire LaCroix

The party had gone well, and Nat was feeling pleasantly fatigued  
as she said goodnight to the last of her guests. She had realised  
a few years ago that the easiest way to make sure she had a birthday  
party was to throw one herself. There had been ten people for  
dinner, a mix of medical professionals, fellow students from her  
yoga class, and a photographer and his wife, former neighbours,  
who had befriended her when she first moved to Vancouver. This  
year she had served salad, seafood paella, and the usual odds  
and ends - cheese, rolls, blueberries with cream, drinks and coffee  
 all things she could make ahead or buy readymade. In other  
years she had spent more time cooking, but she had felt she needed  
to conserve her energy this year.

Conversation had not suffered from the simplicity of the meal.  
Yvonne from an ob/gyn practice across the city had given a painfully  
funny account before dinner of a terrified intern shed recently  
supervised at his first childbirth, luckily for a mother of three  
who was more than willing to instruct him. Conversation had continued  
lively and entertaining from there. Natalie suspected her friends  
had gone out of their way to distract her from Marcus absence  
with their own good spirits, and appreciated their efforts. She  
had done her best, for her part, to forget her own considerable  
anxiety about his whereabouts and his safety for as long as the  
party lasted, and had largely succeeded. She felt warm and content  
as she set about tidying up before she went to bed.

She had made a point of not thinking about her meeting with  
Nick either, but now, as she began to clear away the dishes, she  
found herself thinking it over. It had been a pleasure to see  
him, certainly. But did she really want to become a friend of  
his again? Their relationship, particularly in its last couple  
of years, had been painful and difficult for her. She had no wish  
to repeat that. Did she want anything at all from him?

It seemed best, she decided as she worked, to go with her impulse  
the night before; take it one step at a time, and see what happened.  
She would meet him for coffee and perhaps a movie tomorrow night.  
Further decisions could wait. After all, he might never come back  
to Vancouver, and the question would resolve itself.

As she carried a tray of dessert bowls into the kitchen she  
heard a tap on the sliding glass door of the balcony, so light  
that at first she dismissed it as wind. But it was repeated, and  
she realised there was someone outside. It had to be Nick. No  
one else could have found their way unaided to a 12th-story  
balcony. Nat was more than a little irritated. She had told him  
she didnt want him to come tonight, that she wanted time  
to think. She didnt appreciate being pushed. Nicks  
lack of consideration for her needs had been an increasing problem  
when she knew him, and it seemed he hadnt learned much.  
Perhaps, after all, she didnt even want to meet him for  
coffee tomorrow. She pushed her hair back off her forehead and  
turned on the balcony light, saying as pulled aside the curtain  
from the sliding glass door, "Nick, I thought "

The figure outside was taller than Nick, and older. She half-heard,  
half-lipread his words through the glass. "You were expecting  
someone else, Dr. Lambert?"

Natalie froze. LaCroix. Of course. Where Nick went, his dangerous  
maker was never far behind. She should have been prepared for  
this.

She stood and thought a moment. If he intended to do her harm,  
she was under no illusions that she could stop him. If he had  
any other purpose, she could be rid of him fastest by finding  
out what it was. She unlocked the door and pushed it open a few  
inches. "M. LaCroix. Why are you here?"

"Is that any way to greet an old acquaintance? I was in  
the area and thought I would stop by." He gestured at the  
door. "May I?"

Natalie looked at him. "Is it true what they say about  
vampires?"

"Can we enter without an invitation? What do you think?  
But I prefer to rely on the courtesy of my host."

Natalie sighed and stood aside, sliding the door open the rest  
of the way. LaCroix stepped inside, brushing the rain from his  
sweeping black overcoat. He removed it and draped it meticulously  
over the back of a kitchen chair. Then he turned and faced her.  
"You dont seem pleased to see me, Dr. Lambert."

She looked at him silently, doing her best to appear calm.  
Her senses were on full alert. What did he intend?

He shook his head. "Such ingratitude."

"Thank you for saving my life," said Natalie politely.  
"Why did you bother?"

You are correct," said LaCroix. "Your welfare  
did not concern me. Nevertheless, you are alive."

Natalie nodded. "As I said. Thank you. LaCroix, its  
late, Im tired, and Im on call tomorrow. Why are you  
here?"

LaCroix crossed to the sofa and sat down, crossing his black-clad  
legs and relaxing against the cushions. "For a pleasant conversation  
with an old acquaintance, of course. Do you treat all your guests  
so cavalierly? Convention suggests that you offer me a drink."  
He smiled blandly at her.

"I dont stock your brand," Natalie said shortly.  
"If you dont mind, Ill continue cleaning up."  
She picked up the dishes she had set down on the sideboard and  
carried them through to the kitchen. LaCroix appeared beside her  
to take them from her hand and set them beside the sink. He stood  
a little closer than he needed, blocking her exit from the kitchen.  
"Really, Dr. Lambert. Wine is more than acceptable. Red,  
by preference."

Natalie sighed. "Theres a bottle open in the dining  
room. Glasses in the sideboard. Feel free."

"Thank you." He moved into the dining room and examined  
the label on the bottle, an eyebrow raised. "You served your  
guests this?"

"One of them brought it." Natalie stacked the rest  
of the dishes on the dining room table. She brushed past him into  
the kitchen and began to load the dishwasher.

LaCroix followed her through, glass in hand, and thoughtfully  
sipped it, leaning against the kitchen table as he watched her  
work. "Not as bad as I expected. British Columbia wines have  
improved."

"So Im told", said Natalie.

"Of course. In your condition you wouldnt be drinking",  
said LaCroix.

Natalie nodded. Naturally he would be able to detect her pregnancy  
as easily as Nick had. She put the last of the dishes into the  
dishwasher , and turned to the sink to run water into the pots  
to soak. She bent to retrieve a washcloth from under the sink.  
"Could you hand me down the detergent from that cupboard?"  
she asked. LaCroix reached over her head and complied silently.  
Natalie filled the dishwasher compartments with powder and handed  
the box back to him to put away. He set the soap back in the cupboard  
and stood aside while she wiped down the counters and table. "Come  
through", she said, and gestured towards the living room.  
"It will take me five minutes to finish cleaning up, and  
then I can give you my full attention."

"Certainly," said LaCroix, inclining his head. "It  
was not my intention to interrupt your evening tasks."

Of course it was, thought Natalie. It was your intention to  
knock me off balance and keep me there; and its not going  
to happen. Nevertheless, she felt unsettled. Performing her chores  
despite his presence calmed her and gave her time to consider  
what to do.

She mechanically moved the candlesticks back to the sideboard  
while she thought, gathered the tablecloth and threw it into the  
laundry hamper in the bathroom, and did a quick scan of the living  
and dining rooms for overlooked glasses and plates. All the while  
she was intensely aware of the presence of the vampire. She finished  
by the dining room table and the coffee table in the living room,  
rinsed the washcloth in the sink, and put it in the dishwasher  
with the rest. She washed her hands and dried them on the teacloth  
by the sink. Pouring herself a glass of apple juice, she came  
through to the living room.

LaCroix was looking through her bookcase. "An interesting  
selection, doctor," he said. "I see youre a Michael  
Ondaatje fan."

"I discovered him when everyone else did," said Natalie.  
"I wanted to read the book The English Patient  
was based on, and went from there to his other work."

"A good novel," LaCroix said. "Why did it appeal  
to you?"

Natalie sat down at one end of the couch, and took a drink  
of her apple juice. "Originally? A young woman becomes intrigued  
by an attractive stranger with a mysterious past, who needs her  
help. The darker the secrets he reveals, the more deeply attached  
she becomes. Surely the books appeal is obvious."

"And now what do you think of it, doctor?" LaCroix  
sat down on the loveseat across from her, crossing his long, black  
clad legs. He leaned back into the cushions, completely relaxed.

"Now I think its beautifully written."

LaCroix took a sip of his wine and looked at her without speaking.  
Suddenly Natalie felt very cold. She thought with utter clarity,  
this creature has been a remorseless serial killer for two thousand  
years. He thinks humans are cattle. Personally he doesnt  
like me much. And Im playing games with him. What am I doing?

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. LaCroix set  
his wineglass down on the end table. "You have no need for  
fear, doctor", he said. "Your condition protects you."

"From exsanguination, perhaps", said Natalie. "Not,  
I suspect, from simple murder."

LaCroix inclined his head. "I could kill you, true. But  
at present I see no pressing need to do so."

And you no longer kill for pleasure? Natalie thought. She did  
not ask.

LaCroix continued, "the reason for my visit is quite innocent,  
Dr. Lambert. Five years ago I saved your life. I wish to know  
what you have done with it. To know how youre doing,  
as they say."

Natalie shrugged. She didnt believe him for a second.  
"Im fine. Life is good." What did he really want  
to know?

"Really, doctor," said LaCroix. "Do not dismiss  
my interest so quickly." He scrutinized her slowly. "You  
appear to be telling the truth. You show the signs of contentment  
and vigorous good health. I gather you have developed a circle  
of congenial friends." He nodded towards the dining room  
table, a reference to the earlier evidence of her dinner party.  
"And your condition itself speaks of hope for the future.  
I assume it was planned. Artificial insemination?"

"What is it with you people?" Natalie asked, exasperation  
diminishing her fear. "Why do you assume I couldnt  
get laid at an orgy? Not everyone thinks any woman over 25 has  
lost all her appeal!"

"My dear Dr. Lambert", LaCroix smiled slowly. "I  
made no such assumption. Nor are my tastes what you believe. As  
you are an intelligent woman, and moreover a doctor, I assumed  
your condition was no accident. As I see no sign of a male inhabitant,  
I hazarded an anonymous donor."

She was furious to feel herself redden under his amused gaze.  
She turned away and made a show of adjusting a pillow behind her  
back. I must not allow this man to provoke me, she thought. At  
least, I must not show it if he does.

But she was falling into an old pattern, she realised. Why  
shouldnt she give him honest responses? It would be faster,  
and fencing with him was pointless in any case; he was a master  
of the art. She couldnt stop him if he meant her harm, nor,  
probably, dissuade him. She turned back and looked at him calmly.

"My apologies. Your reasoning does me too much credit.  
The father has left the country. The pregnancy was not planned,  
though I am happy about it." She took a sip from her apple  
juice.

His amused smile deepened. "Really, doctor? An accident,  
at your age? And does the father believe that?"

Hes trying to insult me, Natalie thought, with a touch  
of surprise. "Are you suggesting that I deliberately attempted  
to entrap the father through pregnancy?" she asked, choosing  
her words carefully.

LaCroix shrugged indifferently. Not if you say otherwise.  
But it is difficult to imagine, in this era, how such an accident  
could happen to a woman of your abilities and training. And you  
have a past history of manipulation of your lovers. Or those you  
want as lovers." His tone was smoothly and deliberately offensive.

Natalie took a slow breath before she answered. Showing him  
an honest reaction was one thing; allowing herself to be goaded  
was another. "My past mistakes are my own, LaCroix . Ive  
dealt with them. Was there something else you wanted to discuss?"  
How would he react to resistance? LaCroix was not one to back  
down.

Again to her surprise, LaCroix broke his gaze and said mildly,  
"my apologies, doctor. My comments were uncalled for. I was  
simply curious." He continued to look inquiring, but seemed  
somehow satisfied, as if her reaction had told him what he wanted  
to know.

Natalie decided to let the insult pass without further comment.  
She explained, "The usual contraceptive drugs are contraindicated  
in my case because of my medical condition  the blood clotting  
disorder that saved my life", she added in response to his  
politely slanted eyebrow. "And every other method has a small  
but significant failure rate. Still, it is somewhat embarrassing.  
Or it would be if I werent so pleased."

"And the father?"

"Left the country before he knew. Ive sent word.  
I havent heard from him yet."

"You dont seem concerned."

"I am," admitted Natalie. "But theres  
nothing I can do about it. Im sure he will be in touch as  
soon as he gets the message and can respond."

LaCroix nodded. "You do not seem to be allowing your anxiety  
to unbalance you, however. You have changed in the last five years."

"Ive tried, at any rate", said Natalie.

A silence fell. Natalie took another sip of her juice. LaCroix  
gaze wandered the room. She saw the apartment through his cold  
eyes. A cheerful watercolour by a Saltspring artist she knew,  
showing boats at anchor in Ganges Harbour, hung on one wall. A  
hand-thrown pottery vase she had picked up at a Granville Island  
craft fair held a large mixed bouquet of flowers brought by one  
of her dinner guests. She had retrieved from storage the multicoloured  
afghan her grandmother had crocheted for her when she left for  
university, and draped it over the second-hand rocking chair in  
one corner. Sinbad, her grey tabby cat, slept there when she wasnt  
using the chair herself. The pile of books which usually sat on  
the end-table beside LaCroix had been hastily pushed into the  
living room bookcase before her party, and were sitting in random  
order on the bottom shelf. A copy of a large-breasted, heavily  
pregnant stone Neolithic goddess figurine from Anatolia, a gift  
from a grateful patient, stood on the mantlepiece. An austere  
Haida carved wooden shamans mask, features accented in black  
and white paint, hung in one corner. LaCroix eye lingered  
on it and she knew it appealed to him, probably alone of the objects  
in the room. The rest would be too colourful, too cheerful, too  
bourgeois, too  human  for his tastes, she thought.  
Well, the hell with him. She hadnt decorated with his approval  
in mind. It suited her.

LaCroix gaze returned to her. "Your liking for colour  
does not seem to accord with your chosen profession of caring  
for the dead, doctor."

"Ive changed fields", said Natalie. "Now  
I deliver babies. Though in fact I always liked to have colour  
around me."

"Obstetrics?" LaCroix said, sounding mildly surprised.  
"The very antithesis of your former specialty. A reaction  
to disappointment in Toronto, perhaps?"

Natalie was too tired and beginning to feel too irritated with  
her uninvited guest to respond to his dig with answering subtlety.  
"Perhaps. Certainly I was not happy in the last years in  
Toronto. But basically I was just sick of dealing with dead people."  
She hoped he felt insulted.

LaCroix gaze flicked over her, mildly amused. "Really."  
He picked up his wineglass and turned it by the stem, and continued  
with no apparent emphasis, "even Nicholas?" The light  
from the crystal refracted in dim red points on his face.

Natalies attention sharpened. Of course this was the  
purpose of his visit. "Probably especially Nick, by then,"  
she answered.

"And now your feelings have altered?"

What answer did he want? "I havent really thought  
about it," she said, playing for time. She had reached no  
conclusions, at any rate.

LaCroix sighed. "Please, doctor. I know you have seen  
him recently. I am curious to know what you intend to do."

"At the moment, I have no idea."

LaCroix looked at her. "Really, Dr. Lambert? Surely you  
cannot deny that you are - intrigued - by his arrival. Curious  
to know where it will lead. Perhaps you are prepared to grant  
him the benefit of the doubt, to blame all his errors of judgment  
on the influence of his less respectable friends, to allow the  
acquaintance to progress despite your doubts. Perhaps you are  
wondering if, after all, there is some potential for a future  
with him. Would this not be a more accurate description of your  
thoughts?"

His gaze remained on her face as he spoke, his expression one  
of mild interest, but Natalie was not deceived. He was intent  
on gauging her reaction to his words. And he was good, no question  
of it. In some respects he might almost have read her mind. She  
refused to allow him to unsettle her, and waited a moment to order  
her thoughts before she spoke.

"You are correct, M. LaCroix. I dont know why Nick  
called, I dont know what Ill do about it, and I have  
grave doubts about pursuing the acquaintance. None of this is  
so definite as to constitute an "intention". His friends  
influence on Nick, whatever it might be, is his concern. And youve  
forgotten something. I have more important things on my mind."

"Of course," said LaCroix smoothly. "Finding  
a father for your bastard child. Assuming your erstwhile lover  
refuses to acknowledge it, as you must fear. Do you hope to snare  
Nicholas into the role of stepfather?"

This was so intentionally offensive Natalie nearly gasped.  
But it was also so wide of the mark that it didnt affect  
her. There was no question that Marcus would acknowledge the child,  
whatever else happened. She felt no shame over her pregnancy,  
and knew that she could cope with single motherhood if need be.  
LaCroix ancient prejudices betrayed him here. She looked  
at him curiously. "Youre deliberately trying to anger  
me. Why?"

Natalie noticed with interest that while LaCroix pose  
remained relaxed and his expression impassive, his eyes flicked  
over her face with sudden attention. Was he surprised to be called  
on his game? But his voice remained indifferent when he spoke.  
"I find it the quickest route to an honest answer."

"Really? Or only a hasty one?" Natalie asked. "In  
any case, Ive already given you an honest answer."  
She sipped her apple juice calmly.

The silence lengthened. LaCroix looked lazily around her cheerful  
apartment again, his gaze returning to her and resting lightly  
on her belly before lifting. When he spoke, he seemed to have  
decided on another approach. "Your life seems to have altered  
materially for the better since I last saw you, doctor. A pleasant  
home, congenial work, friends, a welcome pregnancy."

"As youve already noted", Natalie replied.  
Where was this going?

"In fact, you have a great deal more to lose than you  
did." He looked idly at her face and away.

LaCroix voice did not alter from its calm purr. But suddenly  
Natalie was cold with fear. She took another sip of apple juice,  
trying to loosen the constriction in her throat. She did not wish  
her voice to betray her. Though he would hear her racing pulse,  
an unwelcome thought reminded her. She looked at LaCroix with  
all the composure she could muster. "If you put it that way."

"Five years ago, I believe you considered the world well  
lost for love." LaCroix voice gave an ironical inflection  
to the last word. "Tell me, doctor, would you feel the same  
way now?"

Natalie thought carefully and quickly. Again the truth seemed  
to be the best option. She continued to look directly at LaCroix.  
"Youre right, M. LaCroix. I did feel, then, as if I  
had nothing to lose. I dont feel that way now. As I told  
Nick, I deeply regret what I did five years ago. I would under  
no circumstances do the same things again. " Would that satisfy  
him? Or was there something else he wanted?

"So you would avoid anything that appeared to threaten  
your current life." LaCroix voice continued its low,  
relaxed purr, but Natalie was not deceived. They had reached the  
critical point of the conversation.

"I wouldnt avoid anything," she  
said. "That would be to live my life in fear. But I would  
consider very carefully the consequences of any decision I made.  
Quite aside from my happiness in my life here, theres more  
than my own welfare to consider now."

"Of course," said LaCroix. "You would avoid  
anything that seemed to be a threat to your child." He looked  
at her directly.

"I would deal with potential threats in whatever way seemed  
best," answered Natalie. She returned his gaze. She was still  
afraid. He had tried angering her, and now he was trying, more  
successfully, to frighten her. But she could not allow him to  
manipulate her in either way. If she permitted LaCroix to intimidate  
her once, he would unscrupulously take advantage of it forever.

"To come to the point, then, doctor." LaCroix set  
down his glass on the side table and sat forward. "Does not  
Nicholas strike you, by his very nature, as a danger to your life  
here? To your child?"

"Im considering that question. I havent decided  
yet."

He did not move his gaze from her face. "And what of his  
 disreputable friends, doctor? Do they not strike you as  
a possible threat to your tranquillity?"

"I wouldnt expect to have much to do with them,"  
answered Natalie. "We have little in common, after all."  
She did her best to remain calm, concentrating on breathing slowly  
and evenly, to counter the adrenaline flooding her veins. She  
felt a little ill.

"And if you found you were mistaken? If his  friends  
 took a close interest in your activities?" LaCroix  
voice was low and hypnotic.

Natalie closed her eyes and mentally shook off the effects  
of his tone. "Why would they?"

"If you were planning to continue to assist Nicholas to  
find a cure for what you choose to regard as his medical  
condition, his friends might find themselves unable to stay  
away, doctor."

"Oh! Is that why youre here?" she said without  
pausing to think. Her relief was unmistakable, and LaCroix seemed  
taken aback. "I have no intention of continuing my research  
into a cure for Nick. As I told him yesterday. I have neither  
the facilities nor the talent, nor, really, the interest in research.  
If Nick really wants a cure, he should wait fifty years, or a  
hundred, and pay someone who can do it properly. It wont  
be me."

LaCroix relaxed into the cushions behind him, but continued  
to look at her. "You surprise me, doctor. It was your sole  
aim for six years, and now you are so willing to give it up?"

Natalie shook her head. "You know very well it was not  
my sole aim. I began out of professional curiosity, and continued  
out of personal interest. I thought that if Nick were cured, he  
would be able to commit himself to a relationship with me."

"And you no longer think so?"

"I dont even know if it was true five years ago,  
LaCroix." Nat set down her empty glass. "Certainly Ive  
got no reason to think its true now. Or that I would want  
it, even if it were."

"Im fascinated, doctor. What prompts this sudden  
clarity of vision?"

"Age. A near-death experience. A good relationship with  
another man."

"If you arent trying to find a cure for his condition,  
what will Nicholas get out of continuing his acquaintance with  
you, doctor?" LaCroix expression remained bland, as  
if he had not just insulted her, and Natalie decided to take the  
question at face value.

"Thats up to Nick. If he isnt getting anything  
he wants out of knowing me, presumably he will vanish again."  
Fatigue made her reckless and she decided to speak honestly. "Frankly,  
M. LaCroix, I think the only reason he showed up now was to salve  
his conscience. Now that hes sure Im well hell  
probably find his urge to stay in touch will fade. But whatever  
happens, I discovered in Toronto that I cant be his friend  
and his doctor at the same time. I spent my time nagging him to  
drink his protein shakes, stop drinking blood, try to eat something,  
on and on. I could hear myself turning into a shrew and I hated  
it. I wont do it again. Perhaps well become friends,  
in time, though Im not sure even of that. But Ill  
never be his pet doctor again."

"And if thats what Nicholas actually wants of you?  
To continue his search for a cure?" LaCroix asked again.

"Then hell be disappointed."

LaCroix relaxed fractionally, settling back into the cushions.  
"Im curious, doctor. What kind of relationship do you  
think you can have, if you are not both mortal, or both   
"

"Loathsome undead creatures of the night?" Natalie  
filled in when he hesitated.

LaCroix seemed taken aback, but after a moment inclined his  
head in graceful agreement. "As you say, doctor. What will  
you do?"

"I dont know. But when I was in Toronto, I made  
the mistake of basing the entire relationship on what he might  
someday become, instead of on where we stood now. Ive seen  
friends fall in love with alcoholics, married men, drug users,  
men happily living across the continent, and its all the  
same mistake. Their relationships were based on fantasies, fairy  
tales of how it would be if the man stopped drinking, drugging,  
being married, living in New Orleans; never on the actual relationship,  
which was what they were going through at the time, which they  
didnt even notice, they were so focussed on the utopian  
future they imagined. I was doing the same thing with Nick. I  
wouldnt do that again."

"Then what will you do, doctor?" LaCroix repeated.  
"What kind of happiness can you imagine with him? Or he with  
you? He will outlive you by a considerable period, after all.  
He will not age or grow ill, and he must watch while you do. How  
do you expect him to cope with that?"

"Thats his problem. Assuming I see him again at  
all, LaCroix; your concern, as Ive said already, is premature.  
But I had a cat in Toronto. Sydney. Id had him since my  
teens. He was my constant companion for years. He died of old  
age three years ago, and I mourned him sincerely. And then I got  
a kitten."

"So you see yourself as Nicks pet." LaCroix  
smiled derisively.

Natalie looked at him wearily and shook her head. "I see  
myself, possibly, as Nicks shortlived friend. But theres  
no guarantee that hell outlive me, LaCroix. Vampires arent  
immortal; they just dont die of natural causes." She  
paused, and added quietly after a moment, "and if we never  
loved anyone who was going to die, we would never love anyone  
at all."

LaCroix said nothing. Fatigue was beginning to weigh on Natalie,  
and after a moment she decided to be reckless once more. "If  
I can ask you a question, LaCroix. " He nodded politely.  
"Why interfere?"

LaCroix looked at her for a moment. Natalie continued, "From  
what Nicks said in the past, its not just a question  
of discouraging Nick from trying to become mortal. Youve  
always done your best to dissuade him from any involvement with  
the world of mortals at all, except that of hunter and prey."

Again LaCroix said nothing. After a moment she went on, "Assume  
youre right, and involvement with mortals is always a mistake  
for a vampire. Why not let him make the mistakes, and find out  
for himself that youre right? In ten years or so hell  
come back to you anyway. Thats the blink of an eye, for  
you. But if you keep bringing his attempts to a premature end,  
hell only keep on trying."

LaCroix looked at her without speaking for a long moment. Just  
as she decided that he had no intention of answering her, he replied.  
"Pleading on your own behalf, Dr. Lambert?"

Natalie was about to deny this, but honesty made her hesitate.  
"I dont think so, now", she said. "Im  
pleading on behalf of my younger self, perhaps. And on behalf  
of the next person he forms an attachment to. And for Nick. If  
he doesnt make his own choices he will never find out whats  
best for him."

LaCroix had picked up his wine glass and turned it slowly by  
the stem while she was speaking, observing the colour through  
the crystal. He seemed to consider. Finally he set the glass down and  
looked at her directly. "He must learn to accept what he  
is. " He paused, and went on. "When you are a parent,  
you will understand better why I interfere."

Natalie considered the wisdom of replying and cast aside her  
caution. "I hope I will also know when to stop."

"You are mortal, doctor. You, and your relationships,  
necessarily change over time, as you mature, age, and die. Vampires  
do not feel the same need for this continual readjustment."

LaCroix ice-blue eyes looked directly into hers. Again  
she felt a chill. She had never before considered that aspect  
of the vampire world. They did not die, and did not need to change.  
Their relationships with each other could be not only permanent,  
but immutable, if they chose. She found the thought terrifying.  
Poor Nick, who had tried so hard to change his relationship with  
LaCroix; but LaCroix did not choose that it should alter. She  
had a vision of him bound to LaCroix in passionate misery through  
the millennia, as the world changed again and again around them  
without even attracting their notice.

She cleared her throat and replied. "And if they do want  
to change?"

LaCroix shrugged. "They find it difficult. But few feel  
that desire. It, like death, is a mortal weakness."

Nick feels it, Natalie thought, but it seemed pointless to  
say so. That was perhaps LaCroix main problem with him.  
She had tried to suggest an alternate strategy to LaCroix, without  
apparently having much of an effect. It seemed futile to involve  
herself further. And suddenly she was very tired.

LaCroix must have seen, again, the change in her expression.  
He rose. "But I do not mean to outstay my welcome, Dr. Lambert.  
You need abundant rest in your condition. Thank you for entertaining  
me at so late an hour."

"My pleasure," Natalie murmured politely, rising  
a second after him and following him into the kitchen. She retrieved  
his coat from the chair and handed it to him. "Perhaps youd  
prefer to leave by the regular route?" she murmured mischievously,  
and gestured to the apartment door. "Though its certainly  
less dramatic."

LaCroix allowed himself a smile. It did no harm to leave on  
a pleasant note. "Perhaps", he said. "It is a wet  
night." She led him through the apartment and opened the  
door. "Goodnight, doctor. I wish you every success with your  
venture into child-rearing." He inclined his head courteously  
and stepped out.

The doctor had put her time to good use since their last meeting,  
he thought as he made his way back to his hotel. She appeared  
to have learned from her mistakes, and both her judgment and her  
strength of character had certainly increased with age. She had  
been afraid of him, but had correctly refused to be intimidated;  
she had even challenged him, though her heartbeat told him that  
she was aware of the risk she took in doing so. Few mortals, or  
vampires, had such hardihood. She had, moreover, made her best  
of the life she had, and was content with it. Continued acquaintance  
with her might even be good for Nicholas, if it taught him to  
do the same.

Older mortals were so often more interesting than the young,  
he thought idly. They did have that advantage over vampires, the  
ability born of necessity to learn quickly and cope with rapid  
change. Their own changing bodies demanded it of them. The changes  
Dr. Lambert had accomplished in five years would not come to a  
vampire in fifty, or a hundred. It was regrettable that mortals  
were physically less appealing as they aged, though that was not  
yet true in Dr. Lamberts case. Nicholas attachment  
to her would not last much longer than her looks, LaCroix thought;  
he had a strong taste for superficial beauty. He estimated that  
Natalie would continue to interest Nicholas for another five years  
at most, depending on what pregnancy did to her body. A pity;  
Nicholas could have learned from her, and LaCroix was willing  
to allow the association, since Dr. Lamberts research no  
longer posed a threat.

He hoped she spoke the truth about her refusal to further abet  
Nicholas futile search for a "cure". LaCroix was  
unwilling to tolerate further interference of that kind, but,  
he realised, he genuinely did not desire her death. If it after  
all became necessary, he would ensure that it was quick and painless.

###   
§§§  


That night Natalie slept restlessly. She woke several times,  
disturbing dream fragments clinging as she rose to consciousness,  
and found it more difficult each time to fall back to sleep. Finally,  
in the early hours of the morning, she accepted that she was fully  
awake and wasnt going to get back to sleep by lying in bed  
and hoping. She sighed, arose and shuffled groggily out to the  
kitchen to make herself some tea.

As she lit the burner under the kettle she caught sight of  
herself in the reflective door of the wall oven, her face lit  
from beneath by the light on the stoves instrument panel.  
All of her incipient wrinkles, her pouches and sags and tiny   
and not so tiny  signs of aging were underscored in deep  
shadow by the merciless angle of the light. Retained water made  
her face and eyes puffy, and the slight morning sickness she felt  
most of the time made her pale and darkened the circles under  
her eyes. The net effect was prematurely aging. Or appropriately  
aging; she was 39 after all, as of midnight. She did not look  
immortal, or eternally 30. Or even eternally 40. She looked more  
like 70 and sliding fast, she thought dispiritedly.

Usually her age didnt worry her, she thought as she poured  
water over the teabag in her cup. But she had just seen Nick again.  
He looked as he did the day she met him, when she was 28. They  
were both beautiful then. He was beautiful now. She was in very  
good shape for her age, a different thing entirely.

She looked searchingly into her reflection in the dark glass.  
What, Natalie, she asked her image, makes you any different from  
all his other women? All those beautiful young things he loved  
and abandoned, murdered in their prime? Besides the fact that  
youre still alive. Why should you believe you mattered more?  
Her reflection looked back at her silently, sadly. She turned  
away with her cup and wearily sat down at the table.

Nick sure picked his times, she thought. As if she didnt  
have enough on her mind already. She had done very well in her  
meeting with him the previous night. Shed been confident,  
independent, warm but reserved  the very picture of a woman  
who has gone on, made something of her life, and has no regrets  
or secret sorrows. And most of the time she was that person. Most  
of the time she was sure she had resolved her feelings about him  
a long time ago. She had loved him, but it wasnt really  
mutual, and shed made some bad mistakes; but shed  
recovered, learned from her experience, and moved on. That was  
the story she had written for herself, and she had done pretty  
well in living up to it.

But remembering their meeting as she sat at her kitchen table  
in the darkened apartment, she wondered how well, after all, it  
described the truth. This was Nick, who for years had held her  
heart in his cold hands. Nick, whose cold heart never once beat  
fast for her. Nick, who was quite fond of her in his way, and  
of a thousand other people too. Nick whom shed loved so  
hopelessly, and if it was hopeless then, how much more hopeless  
now, when she could no longer play the cards of careless youthful  
beauty and vitality to attract him? Of course he would like to  
be her friend. Nick was a friendly person. But was that, truly,  
honestly, all she was likely to want of him, if he stayed in her  
life? Was she really unmoved by him now? One thing she was sure  
of. She never wanted to feel again the kind of pain shed  
felt over him. Surely making a royal fool of herself once in a  
lifetime was enough.

She stirred sugar into her tea and sipped it. Her left temple  
was beginning to throb, the harbinger of a tension headache. She  
rubbed absentmindedly between her brows and it eased a little.  
She was backsliding in thinking this way, beating herself up for  
no reason, she knew. She hadnt been entirely foolish. It  
hadnt all been a delusion. She had meant more to Nick than  
a lot of people did. Even if she hadnt known that before,  
his reappearance was evidence that she had been important to him.  
But it was very late, she was tired, and fatigue always made her  
feel low. The surprise visit from LaCroix hadnt helped either.  
The hell with all of it. She would finish her tea, take a Tylenol  
and go back to bed. Her spirits would be restored by morning,  
she reassured herself. After all, why worry about Nick? She had  
been happier without him. With any luck he wouldnt show  
up in Vancouver again anyway. And she had more pressing concerns  
than the emotional state of an old ex-quasi-boyfriend.

Her mind obediently moved to the more pressing concerns as  
she sipped her tea. What was happening with Marcus? It had been  
nearly 6 weeks. Surely that was enough time for him to have received  
her letter? Of course she didnt know how long mail took  
to Sierra Leone; she didnt even know where he was. Still.  
She was really beginning to be anxious about him. Whatever the  
future might hold for them, she certainly wanted him to be well  
and happy, wherever he was. And Sierra Leone wasnt exactly  
the safest place for anyone to be. This was probably another thing  
there was no point thinking about right now, but it was hard to  
stop. Where was he, damn it?

And once he did get her letter, her mind insisted on continuing,  
how was he going to react? Shed tried not to speculate about  
that, too. But her fatigue-induced low spirits made anxiety easier.  
She tried to distract herself, looking over the rim of her cup  
at the lights of the city diffusing through the glass balcony  
doors, dimly illuminating the darkened apartment. The peace of  
the silent, luminous scene, seen from far above, usually calmed  
her. Tonight it seemed to have no effect. She looked away. The  
glowing numbers on the microwave informed her that it was nearly  
3 a.m. Time to go back to bed, not to sit here and worry. But  
she hadnt the energy to move, and her mind kept gnawing  
on the unwelcome question. How was Marcus going to feel when he  
got the news?

Truthfully, she didnt think he was going to be happy.  
It was very likely that he would want to do the honourable  
thing; he was that kind of person. But did she want a husband  
who had only married her out of a sense of duty? Even if that  
was best for the child? She was beginning to realise that shed  
almost rather he turned her down. She had done the honourable  
thing herself, in offering to marry him, but did she really want  
to? She and Marcus had, essentially, agreed that they didnt  
suit, when he left for Sierra Leone. Otherwise he wouldnt  
have left, or she would have gone with him. He was a wonderful  
man, but she saw now that it had never been destined to be a long-term  
relationship. Their approaches to life were too different. The  
pregnancy complicated matters, but did it change anything essential?

There was no point to this, she thought wearily. Sitting up  
at this hour fretting was only making her feel lower. Already  
her headache was worse. Maybe she was better off without either  
one of them, but she was in no state now to make that kind of  
decision. She would go to bed and do some calming breathing exercises,  
and hope that helped her back to sleep. She would feel better  
in the morning. She stood up, rinsed the cup and set it on the  
drainboard, and left the kitchen, stopping in the bathroom for  
a Tylenol before she climbed back into bed. Life was never easy,  
she thought as she turned off the bedside light. But shed  
been through much worse than this. Everything would be okay, somehow.

###   
§§§  


The motionless figure in the shadowed corner of the balcony  
watched her leave the kitchen. She looked so sad as she walked  
away. Even from behind, her drooping shoulders made her look tired  
and discouraged. He had hoped his return would bring her pleasure,  
might even make her happy if one person could ever  
be said to make another one happy. It didnt seem to have  
done so. Perhaps he was reading too much into her appearance.  
She might simply be tired. Or she might not be thinking about  
him at all, as he was arrogantly assuming. Maybe she was worried  
about her absent lover, or about something else entirely. Or maybe,  
he thought wryly, it was simply a lesson to him not to go looking  
into other peoples windows. Still, it worried him to see  
her look so sad. Perhaps after all she was better off with him  
out of her life. He should have thought this through more carefully.

When he was sure she would not return, he departed silently  
into the sky.

###   
§§§§§§§§§§


	3. Five Years Later: Knights Errant

The line stretched across the cracked pavement of the  
Magburaka town square. It had grown during his lunch break.  
There were at least two hundred adults and children standing,  
sitting, and squatting patiently outside. The lucky ones, who  
had been there since early morning, were flattened against  
the wall to take advantage of the meager strip of shade. The  
sun beat down mercilessly on the rest, waiting in a line  
straggling through the square and into the buildings beyond.  
Some held leaves or pieces of cardboard over their heads as  
shields from the heat. Many were mothers, holding their  
shawls or headscarves over the heads of the children in their  
laps to provide a little shade. Sweat streaked the dust on  
their faces. There was little conversation. The crowd was  
silent, stoical, rendered mute by the thick blanket of the  
heat, but prepared to wait until they had what they had come  
for. Marcus looked away from them and continued trying to  
repair the venetian blind over his desk.

It was no cooler inside. He dripped with sweat. He applied  
a little more pressure to the blind, and the bent slat broke  
off in his hand. A stream of sunlight fell across the  
teachers' desk he used as his station, dazzling his eyes. He  
would just have to ignore it. He got out the cooler that held  
the remaining supply of measles vaccine. Blinking to refocus  
his eyes in the comparative dark of the classroom, he counted  
the stock. There was enough for less than half of those  
waiting in the square. The supply truck should have arrived  
three days ago. He hoped it was held up for merely mechanical  
reasons. Fighting between rebels, many hardly more than  
children, and army forces had increased in the area since  
July. Thousands had been driven from their homes. The  
combination of rebels, soldiers, and refugees roaming the  
area made travel dangerous and unpredictable. He would  
continue inoculations until he ran out of vaccine, and then  
he'd have to send the rest of his patients home. But perhaps  
the truck would arrive soon.

After nightfall, when it cooled, he would walk back up to  
the hospital in the church to assist with the critically ill  
and wounded there. If the supply truck had arrived by then,  
he could bring essential supplies with him. Several of the  
patients wouldn't last more than a couple of days without  
more help than he could now provide.

He closed the cooler, checked his supply of sterile  
needles - short, of course, but they should hold out as long  
as the vaccine did - and checked his watch. He smiled  
automatically when he looked at it. It was a parting gift  
from Natalie, a Canadian coin as its face. "To remind you of  
home", she'd said. As if he needed reminding. Every time he  
closed his eyes to sleep he saw her face. He was needed here,  
truly needed. But he wondered daily if that was reason enough  
to stay. He gave himself a mental shake. He wasn't going to  
solve that question now. It was two o'clock; time to start.  
He called into the next room. "edgar? You all set?"

"All set here." A tall, slender Sierra Leone native came  
through the door, wiping his hands on a rag. "Same routine?"

"Yeah. You do the blood pressure and pulse rates on the  
way in, and send home anyone who looks sick." It was a wise  
precaution anyway, but mostly he was doing it to conserve  
supplies. No point using up the available vaccine on anyone  
who was going to have a bad reaction.

edgar nodded and held out his hand. "I need your watch  
again. Mine's still busted." He took it from Marcus and  
strapped it on, running a hand through his hair to dislodge  
the sweat. "Man, it's hot. Glad I'm not out there. Sundown  
can't come too soon." He crossed the room and opened the door  
to the first patient.

Marcus watched the line through the broken slat in the  
blind. The crowd turned and looked as one towards the opening  
door. He could see the hope in their eyes. The line rustled  
quietly as those sitting or squatting stood up and moved  
slowly forward.

***

The supply truck arrived at the height of the afternoon  
heat. edgar had set a gallon jug of water and a supply of  
paper cups outside the door for the children half an hour  
before, and had already gone out twice to refill it. Marcus  
was down to his last four doses of MMR vaccine. He was on the  
verge of sending away the rest of the line when he saw in the  
distance the dust cloud of the truck on its way up the road.

It pulled up outside the schoolhouse ten minutes later. A  
slender blonde woman stepped out of the cab, wearing khaki  
trousers and shirt deeply stained with sweat under the arms  
and between the shoulderblades. She rubbed her eyes with the  
back of her hand and looked around as Marcus came out to  
greet the driver. "Anneliese?" he said with surprise when he  
recognized his colleague, a fellow MSF doctor. "Where's  
Albert? I thought you were staying in Freetown. The roads  
aren't safe." Albert was the regular driver, an ex-militia  
man with relatives in Magburaka.

"I was. Albert's got the flu. We scored you the three  
doses of Ornidyl you phoned and begged for, and I didn't want  
to wait to get them to you." She sighed. "Then the truck  
broke an axle halfway between Masiaka and Masuri and it took  
three days to repair. The phones were out. I'm sorry."

"Ornidyl?" Marcus focussed on the important point. "That's  
great! How did you manage that?" He had twenty patients this  
week in the hospital with sleeping sickness. Three had  
resisted the usual treatment with melarsoprol. Two of them  
were now in a coma. Ornidyl was the only thing left that  
could help. "I've got to get this up to the hospital now. I  
hope it's not too late."

"It's positively the last of the batch, Marcus. We've got  
no more."

Marcus had already climbed into the back of the truck and  
begun hauling out crates of supplies. "No luck with Hoechst  
yet?" he called back over his shoulder.

"It's the small black case towards the front. Hang on,  
I'll find it for you." Anneliese jumped up onto the tailgate  
and made her way to the front of the cargo area. She fished a  
battered black plastic box out from under the larger crates  
and handed it to him. "And no. The W.H.O. is leaning on them,  
but Hoechst is insisting that they can't afford to make more  
without funding from somewhere. But there is no funding." She  
seemed worn out. Hoechst had stopped manufacturing Ornidyl in  
1999, because the market for it, sub-Saharan Africa, could  
not afford to pay a high price for the drug. Dr. Anneliese  
Eckhart had worked tirelessly in the campaign to press the  
company into continuing production. But now even she sounded  
hopeless. Marcus looked at her with concern. She caught his  
expression and shrugged. "I'm just tired. We can talk later.  
Why don't you take this up to the hospital right now and  
start your patients on the treatment? edgar and I can finish  
up your afternoon clinic, if he'll help me unload."

edgar had already appeared by the tailgate and was  
pulling crates out and stacking them on the ground. Marcus  
looked around. The remainder of the line-up was still waiting  
patiently, looking more cheerful now that the truck had  
arrived. "Okay. Thanks a lot. I would like to take care of  
that quickly. I'll get back as soon as I can, and help close  
up and store the supplies."

Anneliese raised her hand in a wave in his general  
direction, balancing a box against her hip with the other.  
"Sure." Marcus was already halfway to his ancient bicycle,  
the precious case of Ornidyl tucked into his shirt for  
safekeeping on his ride to the hospital.

***

Forty-five minutes later he was finished at the hospital.  
He had administered the first injections himself, and left  
instructions with the nurse in charge for the rest of the  
regimen. Early signs indicated that all three patients were  
responding well to the drug. Never mind, he thought, that the  
next sleeping-sickness patient who needed it would die, and  
the one after that, and the one after that. Never mind that  
they would die because of simple greed. A drug company that  
didn't need the profits was nevertheless going to let  
thousands of people die because the market wasn't profitable  
enough. He felt himself growing angry as he thought about it,  
and took a deep breath as he stripped off his gloves. His  
anger would help nothing, he knew. Natalie could always calm  
him when he got into this frame of mind. He could almost hear  
her voice now, as he washed his hands at the sink in the  
storeroom. "You can't save the world by yourself, Marcus,"  
she would say. "You just have to do what you can, and let the  
rest go." And then she would offer him a backrub. He could  
use a backrub now. Even without the further pleasures one of  
Natalie's backrubs always went on to offer. He closed his  
eyes and sighed.

A low boom shook the church that housed the hospital, and  
he looked up, surprised from his thoughts. What the - ?  
Outside the storeroom he heard a commotion, voices and people  
running, and he ran out into the main hall. "What's  
happening?" he asked the first person he met, a young man who  
was running for the outside door.

"The clinic's on fire!" he heard as the man ran past.  
Marcus felt a cold chill of fear. He brushed past the  
confusion in the hall and burst out the main doors himself.  
Outside it was already growing dark. Flames were clearly  
visible, shooting through the roof of the clinic half a mile  
away. Oh, my God, he thought, crossing himself automatically.  
The supplies. edgar. Anneliese. Lord, please save their  
lives. He ran for his bicycle, parked under a tree around the  
side of the church.

As he rounded the corner of the church a youth stepped out  
of the shadow towards him. "Dr. Mackenzie?"

Marcus slowed, turning his head automatically towards the  
speaker. "Yes, what -?" He heard rather than felt the crunch  
of the blow to the back of his skull. Then he knew nothing  
more.

###   
§§§§§§§

Natalie returned late that afternoon after performing a  
tricky emergency C-section. Mother and child were fine,  
although it had been touch and go for a few minutes, and  
ordinarily she would feel elated. Instead she felt worn out.  
Whether it was her late night, unexpected visitor, or fraught  
emotional state, all she wanted to do was collapse into bed.  
She was half-tempted to call Nick and cancel their  
appointment. Perhaps a quick bath would perk her up. If she  
still felt flattened, they could just go for coffee and she  
would make it an early night.

While the bath ran, she fed Sinbad and checked her  
messages. Several from her dinner guests, thanking her for  
the evening. Less than 24 hours ago, and it felt like weeks.  
Nothing yet from Marcus. No point worrying, she told herself.  
She piled her hair on top of her head and slid into the bath,  
letting the heat relax her tired muscles.

The buzzer startled her out of a doze. She looked at her  
watch and leaped out of the tub, dripping and grabbing a  
towel as she ran to the intercom. "Hello?" A familiar voice  
crackled through the speaker.

"Nick Knight here."

"Hi! Uh - " she thought hastily. She hadn't intended to  
let him into the apartment. But she could hardly expect him  
to sit in the lobby for another fifteen minutes while she got  
ready. "Come on up! I'll be a few minutes." She buzzed him in  
and dashed to the bedroom, grabbing a pair of cords and the  
first sweater she laid hands on. Whatever they did this  
evening, she wasn't planning to start it with a peep show. Or  
by showing up at the door in a bathrobe. She was searching  
for two matching socks when he knocked, and walked over to  
the door barefoot to let him in.

Nick was dressed casually in jeans and a blue turtleneck  
under his black leather jacket. He looked as if he'd strolled  
off the cover of GQ. "Sorry, am I early?" he said, looking at  
her feet. "I wondered if you were home yet - I buzzed a  
couple of times."

"I'm so sorry - I fell asleep. I'm just looking for some  
socks. I'll be with you in a minute. Were you waiting long?"  
Natalie heard herself babbling and closed her mouth firmly.  
She felt flustered and still only half-awake. So much for  
being calm and collected when he arrived, she thought  
ruefully as she headed back into the bedroom to finish  
dressing. At least he's seeing the real me. No makeup, hair  
like I've been pulled through a hedge backwards, I don't  
**think** I've spilled anything on this sweater - she checked  
hastily as she pulled on socks and shoes.

"Not at all - I'd really just got here. Take your time",  
Nick said from the living room. Natalie hastily brushed the  
knots out of her hair, decided against earrings, and came out  
to join him. She discovered him at his ease on the couch,  
scratching Sinbad between the ears. The cat was stretched  
ecstatically across his lap, ears flattened, purring loudly.

"Amazing", Natalie said. "He never does that with  
strangers."

"I've gotten much better with cats", said Nick. He stood  
up. He seemed oddly unsure of himself. "Do you still want to  
go to a movie?" he asked. "If you've had a rough day -  
perhaps you'd rather rest?"

Natalie shook her head. "No, it will do me good to get  
out." And I don't want to hang around the apartment with you  
and maybe rent a video just the way we used to and act as if  
nothing ever happened, I didn't nearly die, you didn't vanish  
without a word, and five years haven't gone by, she thought.  
"I think if we move fast we'll be just in time to catch an  
early show. If you still want to, that is. Then we can go for  
coffee afterwards if I have the energy, or else make an early  
night of it."

"Well - " Nick hesitated. "Does it HAVE to be Mission  
Impossible?" He gave her a look of appeal.

Natalie smiled. "I've changed my mind about that anyway.  
Now I want to see "The Legend of Drunken Master." I hope you  
like Jackie Chan."

"Never heard of him. Is it about a schoolteacher?"

"Not exactly. Oh, hang on a second - " Natalie turned just  
as they got to the door. "I brought your files home with me,  
and put them - aha." She scooped a stuffed zippered portfolio  
off the kitchen table and came back out into the hall to hand  
it to him. "There are a few folders in there, with my log  
notebooks, and hard copy notes of all experiments, results,  
and printouts of all data I collected. I also put in the  
blood and tissue sample slides, and all the relevant disks."

Nick weighed the portfolio in his hand. "Could I leave  
this here until later?" he asked. "I can pick it up on my way  
home. I don't want to risk leaving it in a café or  
theatre."

"Sure. Remind me." Natalie got her coat out of the closet  
as she spoke. "Shall we?" Nick set the file down on the hall  
table and followed her out.

"Any word from Marcus?" Nick asked as they waited for the  
elevator.

Natalie shook her head. "I'm going to try again to get in  
touch on Monday. I'll call their headquarters in Belgium and  
see if they can give me any information. They may have  
updated contact numbers for Sierra Leone. I should have  
thought of it before. But I didn't want to feel as if I was  
hounding him."

"I'm sure he'll be very happy to hear from you, Nat."

Natalie sighed. "I hope so. I'm afraid he'll wonder if I  
deliberately got pregnant."

"Why? To trap him into marriage? Do people still do that?"  
asked Nick.

"I don't know. I wonder about some of my patients  
sometimes. I don't think it works too well."

"Nobody knowing you could possibly think you'd do such a  
thing," said Nick firmly. "From everything you've said about  
Marcus, he knows you well and has a deservedly high opinion  
of you", he added. "I wouldn't worry."

Natalie smiled briefly. "Thanks, Nick." She looked away  
unseeingly at the elevator. "I suppose I'm also worried that  
\- " she shrugged. "I don't know. I'm afraid he's the type to  
do the right thing no matter how unhappy it makes him. He's  
likely to think he has to marry me whether he wants to or  
not. That's not what I meant when I offered. I just wanted to  
give him the option."

"Because it was the right thing to do, whether or not it  
made you happy?" asked Nick. "You sound like soul mates."

Natalie grimaced. "When you put it that way it sounds  
silly, doesn't it." She fell silent. The wheeze of the  
elevator climbing to her floor grew louder in the silence.  
"Still, if we did marry, it would probably work out all  
right", she added after a moment. "Hardly an endorsement, is  
it."

"Well, I don't know if "it would probably work out all  
right" is a great reason to get married," said Nick. "Though  
I'm no expert. But I would have said that the only reason to  
marry is because you're sure you want to."

"There is the child's welfare to consider."

"Yes. Though raising it on your own isn't impossible."

"No, but it's not the best option." Natalie sighed.  
"Anyway. What I really need is to talk to him. We could clear  
all this up in a single conversation. It's so easy to invent  
phantom problems."

"I'm sure you'll hear from him soon."

"I hope so".

Natalie sounded tired. Nick looked down at her. Her head  
was lowered, eyes on the floor. "Nat, are you sure you want  
to go out?" he asked again. "You look exhausted."

She straightened up. "I'm fine. I'm worried, but that  
won't help anything. I need to get out of the house. Jackie  
Chan is the perfect distraction, trust me." The elevator  
doors opened.

"So, tell me about Jackie Chan," Nick said as they  
entered.

Natalie smiled wickedly. "You'll see."

### §§§

The movie revived Natalie's spirits. She was still  
giggling as they exited the theatre, two hours later. "That  
was great! I couldn't believe the fight scene in the foundry.  
It was incredible! "

Nick smiled at her. "I'm glad to hear it. I'd have to  
worry if you COULD believe it. The fight scenes were as  
choreographed as professional wrestling."

"Oh, please, Nick. They were far better choreographed than  
that. What was your favourite part?"

"'Favourite' isn't exactly the word. I was petrified. That  
man is as reckless as I am - but I know I won't die. Or is he  
just using up his stunt doubles at a frightening rate?"

"Oh no, he does all his own stunts. That's what the  
out-takes at the end showed - times the stunt didn't work. He  
does amazing things."

"Suicidal you mean. I am amazed - that he's lived so long.  
You're sure he goes out in daylight?"

Natalie grinned at him. "Oh yes, and he ages too. Probably  
faster than a lot of us."

"Scratch that theory then." Nick spotted a café  
across the street. "Was the hot dog at the movie enough for  
you? Or would you like to stop in for something to eat on the  
way home?"

"That hot dog didn't even qualify as food. Fainting of  
hunger would have been a better choice. I'm starving."  
Natalie considered the café. "Let's see what they've  
got." They crossed the street together.

Natalie was hungry enough to start on her chocolate  
milkshake before her pizza arrived. Nick watched her, amused.  
"I didn't know they prescribed chocolate for pregnant women  
these days. Or pizza. "

"Milk. Cheese. Dairy products," said Natalie cheerfully.  
"The only palatable way to ingest them, as far as I'm  
concerned. "

"I've never seen anyone order the two together," added  
Nick,

"You haven't eaten with a lot of pregnant women, have  
you." She drank again from the milkshake. "I'm just sorry  
they couldn't give me a side order of pickled artichokes."  
She grinned as he shuddered, and wondered idly what Nick was  
drinking these days. His business, whatever it was. He  
wouldn't have gone back to killing, at least; if he had, he  
would never have called her.

Thinking about his diet brought to mind her late-night  
visitor, and her mood sobered. She had thought over his visit  
as she worked that day. She had been enjoying the evening and  
didn't want to spoil the mood, but she couldn't put off this  
conversation any longer.

She had another sip and set down the half-empty glass.  
"Nick? Something I meant to tell you."

Nick turned to her, alert to her change of tone.  
"Trouble?"

"I hope not." She took a breath. "Your friend LaCroix  
visited me late last night. He appeared at my balcony door  
after my guests had left."

"What?" Nick straightened in his chair. "What did he  
want?"

"Of course he didn't exactly tell me," said Natalie. "But  
the interview seemed to be over once he was sure I wasn't  
planning to continue research on a cure. He was even  
marginally pleasant as he left."

Nick looked away from her. From the set of his jaw she  
could tell, even in the café's dim light, that he was  
angry. "I'm sorry", he said. "He promised not to interfere.  
I'll deal with him."

"He would tell you that he was just visiting an old  
acquaintance. At least that's what he told me. The thing is."  
Natalie hesitated. This was hard to say. In the past she had  
rarely discussed Nick's vampire associates with him, but this  
was necessary. "He threatened me. He showed me how vulnerable  
I was by visiting me at all. He pointed out that I had a lot  
to lose. Then he suggested that further research on a cure  
could be dangerous."

She heard an intake of breath from Nick, but continued  
without pausing. She needed to speak her piece without  
faltering. "I think he left convinced that I wasn't planning  
any. But, Nick. I was terrified. And I won't put up with  
this. I'm glad, I'm very glad, to have seen you again. "

She took a breath. "It lifted a weight I didn't know I was  
carrying to be able to talk to you," she continued. "There  
was so much I needed to say. And it means a lot to me that  
you came at all. If you want to, I'll be happy to stay in  
touch with you." She looked at him steadily. "But not if it  
puts me at risk from your friends."

"I entirely understand", Nick said. His expression was  
unreadable. "I'll deal with LaCroix. You're in no danger. I  
promise you, it won't happen again."

Natalie's suppressed emotion, the agitation she still felt  
from the night before, abruptly ran over. "Nick, how can you  
possibly know that? He threatened my life! If he promised not  
to interfere, what was he doing in my apartment? How can I  
trust either one of you?"

"Nat". Nick drew her attention with a touch on her arm.  
"LaCroix has never broken his word to me. He promised me that  
you were in no danger from him. He disapproves of friendships  
with mortals, and if he can frighten you away without  
breaking his word, he'll be pleased. If you want me to leave  
of course I will. But he won't hurt you. Honestly."

Natalie looked down at her milkshake. Her stomach churned  
with tension and she pushed it aside. "You're sure."

"I am."

"What about your Enforcer buddies?" She had thought of  
them, also, in the depths of the night after LaCroix' visit.  
It hadn't helped her sleep.

Nick looked around at the café. There was no one  
within earshot; the tables around them were empty, the other  
late-night customers gravitating to the bright lights at the  
front of the café. Nevertheless, he kept his voice  
low. "They're under the impression that you never knew much,  
and that what memories you had were wiped during your  
illness."

"How'd you manage that?" Natalie was more than a little  
concerned that the question had come up at all.

"LaCroix has some influence. He handled it."

"And how'd you manage THAT?"

"Let's just say he's been made aware of the importance of  
your wellbeing." Nick spoke wearily. "Look. Nat. You have  
nothing to fear. Trust me."

Natalie felt tired and old. "I just don't feel like  
dealing with this, Nick," she said finally. "You and LaCroix  
can play your little games forever, but I don't want to be a  
pawn. I don't want to be forever looking over my shoulder. I  
don't want any more two a.m. visitors landing on my balcony."  
She noted Nick's guilty look. Interesting. She'd had the  
feeling in her kitchen late last night that she was being  
watched. "None", she added firmly. "I didn't buy a 12th-story  
condo so people could stare in my windows.

"I don't want your creatures of the night cronies  
breathing down my neck. I just want a normal life. I want to  
go to movies and read books and have my friends over to  
dinner sometimes. I want to go for walks and wonder what to  
cook for dinner. I want to deliver babies and maybe do a  
little research in gynecology, and live with my friends  
around me, and family too if I have one, and feel as if I'm  
doing some good in the world, that I'll leave some corner of  
it a better place than I found it. I want to love as well as  
I can and work as well as I can and enjoy life's small  
pleasures and die old and disgustingly happy and at peace  
with God. I'm asking a lot, I know. But that's what I'm  
trying for.

"And I don't want it to be cut short by your serial killer  
colleagues. I don't want to even have to worry that it might  
be. I left all this behind me in Toronto and damn it, I want  
it to STAY there. In my past."

Her voice had been rising as she spoke, but she lowered it  
as Nick looked quickly over his shoulder again for  
eavesdroppers, and ended quietly. "I didn't say any of this  
earlier because I wanted to enjoy the evening with you. I've  
enjoyed seeing you, and I'll be happy to do it again sometime  
when you're in town. If you want to. But that invitation does  
not extend to your 'old friends'."

Natalie took a deep breath and feel silent. She had spoken  
more forcefully than she'd intended, but she regretted none  
of what she'd said. Nick had allowed her to go on  
uninterrupted until she was done. Now he nodded. "Understood.  
Nat, you don't know how much I want that life for you. If my  
presence would endanger you, believe me, I would never have  
come. All this is already taken care of. You didn't need to  
say any of this."

"Yes, I did."

"Sorry. Of course you did. What I meant was, I already  
knew it. I knew you would accept a friendship on no other  
terms. I'm happy to agree to them." He looked at her soberly  
until she nodded. "Okay?"

Natalie exhaled. "Okay."

"Are we okay?"

Natalie hesitated, then nodded again. "I think so. But I  
meant it."

"I know you did."

Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of the  
waiter with Natalie's pizza, and a glass of red wine for  
Nick. "Double cheese, mushroom, and pineapple?"

"Right here, thanks." Natalie had relaxed and felt hungry  
again. She dragged a piece of pizza onto her plate and took a  
healthy bite, washing it down with a sip of milkshake. "I  
would have asked for garlic, but I thought you might still -"

"Thanks. Very thoughtful," Nick said. He still looked  
faintly green. "Nat, I never saw even Schanke eat pizza with  
pineapple."

"Didn't know what he was missing." And now he never would,  
she thought. A flicker of sadness crossed her face.

"I know," said Nick. "I miss him too." They sat for a  
moment in silence. "But he wouldn't want you to let it get  
cold", he added.

Natalie smiled. "No." She took another bite.

"And I do want to," he said. Natalie looked at him,  
puzzled. "Stay in touch", he clarified. "You keep sounding as  
if you're not sure."

She swallowed. "Frankly, Nick, I'm not sure why you showed  
up in the first place."

"I missed you." Natalie had finished her first slice,  
except the crust, which she left on the edge of her plate.  
Now her head was bent industriously over the pizza as she  
tried to separate another piece without trailing cheese over  
the table. He smiled as he watched her. "I missed you a lot.  
You don't know how long it's been since I had someone I could  
talk to."

Natalie looked up, pizza successfully transferred. "I  
missed you too, Nick. You were a good friend to me. And you  
certainly opened up my horizons," she said. "But surely you  
can talk more easily with other vampires?"

"Not about anything that matters", said Nick. "Certainly  
not with LaCroix. Not even with Janette, much as I loved her.  
But our perspectives on life are too different."

"Have you seen her? How is she?" Natalie asked, while she  
digested this. He had told her in a few sentences more than  
he had said in six years about the most important people in  
his life. This was a new Nick.

"I've run into her a couple of times in Paris." Nick  
looked away, unseeing, at the bull-fighting scene painted on  
purple velvet that hung on the wall beside their table,  
thankfully poorly illuminated. "She's - sad. She misses  
Robert. I'm surprised she was willing to see me."

Natalie felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the  
beautiful vampire, trapped in an immortality she no longer  
desired, and cursed, besides, with a perfect memory of what  
she had lost. "Perhaps she doesn't blame you," she said.

"She doesn't. She says it's poetic justice", said Nick.  
"Still, if I'd really been her friend, I would have let her  
go." Natalie had no answer to this. Nick looked at her oddly.  
"You're not going to tell me I'm wrong?"

"I can't judge," said Natalie. "It's not a temptation I'll  
ever face. If she's forgiven you, though, you may as well do  
the same."

"That's what she says. I find it hard to do."

"You always did. Perhaps that's your particular burden."

"What is?"

"Learning to accept forgiveness. It's always hard to do.  
Not only for you."

Nick looked down at the table. "Other people don't have so  
much to be forgiven for," he said quietly.

"Doesn't matter. We all have something."

"Easy for you to say. What have you got on your  
conscience?" said Nick.

"When I was eleven I let Roddy Beacham kiss me," Natalie  
said promptly. "Even though I didn't like him. I only did it  
because I wanted him to ask his parents to take me along with  
his family to Canada's Wonderland. I wanted to ride on the  
rollercoasters."

Nick began to smile. "A major crime," he said.

"It was pretty nasty", said Nat. "I knew he really liked  
me, and I didn't care if I hurt him. I thought of his  
feelings as a tool that would let me get what I wanted. I  
thought of him as an object. Which is the source of most  
human evil in a nutshell. Fortunately I didn't get away with  
it."

"What happened?"

Natalie had taken another bite of her pizza, which was  
growing cold after all, and made delaying gestures with one  
hand while she chewed and swallowed. "My grandmother knew I  
didn't like Roddy, because I used to make fun of him to my  
friends," she said at last. "So she made me turn down the  
invitation. And when I let slip that he had kissed me, she  
made me go over to his house and apologize to him for leading  
him on. It was awful! He felt so bad, and I cried. Then she  
wouldn't take me to the National Exhibition that summer, as  
punishment. I'd saved up my money all year to go on all the  
midway rides, and I couldn't go."

"Your grandmother was one tough old lady!" said Nick.

"She had a lot of good points," said Nat.

"What happened to Roddy?"

"Oh, we became friends in high school. We even studied  
together. But the worst of it was, he suddenly shot up when  
he was sixteen, gained about a foot in height in one summer,  
and he was a lifeguard, so he had a tan and this mane of  
blonde hair and was totally gorgeous, and was funny and cool  
and every girl in school including me was dying to go out  
with him. And he never looked at me again. Went out with all  
my friends, too. Ouch!"

"Now THAT's poetic justice!" Nick was laughing.

"I'll say," said Nat.

"But I don't see what it has to do with forgiveness," he  
said more soberly.

"Really?" said Nat. "Roddy forgave me, and we even became  
friends. Eventually I forgave myself, though that was harder.  
I'm sure I remembered longer than he did. But I did my very  
best ever after never to treat anyone like that again."

Nick smiled, but looked abstracted. Another trip down  
memory lane, Natalie thought. "It's hardly the same, though,  
is it," he said eventually.

"The principle is."

"So you think I should just forgive myself for destroying  
Janette's one chance at mortality", Nick said harshly. "Let  
myself off the hook."

"Why not?" Natalie said. "She has. Maybe you could think  
of it as an exercise in accepting forgiveness."

Nick was silent for a few moments. Natalie took the  
opportunity to finish her milkshake and have another few  
bites of pizza. Finally he said quietly, "the last few days  
have already been that. I never really thought you'd forgive  
me. Your generosity astounds me."

"I had to forgive you," Natalie said seriously. She set  
down the pizza crust and wiped her fingers and lips on a  
napkin. "I had to if I was going to recover myself. I could  
have spent my life brooding and weeping, but what kind of  
life would that have been?

"After you left Toronto, I was truly miserable. I thank  
God I had a good therapist. She helped me see what I'd done  
to put myself where I was, and forgive myself for all the  
mistakes I'd made, let go of them and go on. And I found I  
couldn't forgive myself without forgiving you."

"Your therapist sounds like a miracle-worker", said Nick.  
"What on earth did you tell her about me?" he added. "I've  
tried to imagine."

"I didn't say anything about you at all for the first six  
months", Natalie answered. "I used to come to the session,  
and we'd chat about nothing in particular, and I told her a  
little bit about my family, but I couldn't bring myself to  
say anything about recent events. Sometimes she'd ask, but I  
always changed the subject.

"Finally one day I was ready to talk. I told her I'd had a  
lengthy relationship with a junkie who said he was trying to  
quit. You had a shady and I believed criminal past that you  
didn't like to talk about, an abusive father who still tried  
to control you, and continuing relationships with friends who  
were still users. Your drug was heroin, which explained the  
lack of sex."

"Don't heroin users - " began Nick.

"Not often. It kills desire, and over time they often  
become impotent. Not that they care, because heroin is  
supposed to be much better than sex. I thought about making  
you gay," Natalie added, "but making you an addict was a  
better analogy, because I could reasonably have hoped that  
someday you might stop being an addict. And right to the end,  
I did hope that we could find a cure for your vampirism. "

"Some women do hope to convert gay men," Nick pointed out.

"True", Natalie said. "But I didn't want to look like even  
more of an idiot than I already did. Also, drug addiction  
naturally gave you ties to a criminal underworld it would be  
dangerous to talk about, so I even had an excuse for not  
being able to talk to anyone about you.

"Anyway, I told her that after several years of  
frustration I'd finally insisted on shooting up with you,  
since sharing a needle was the closest it seemed we would  
ever get to making love. But I'd had a bad reaction to the  
drug and nearly died. While I was in hospital recuperating  
you'd left town. I hadn't heard from you since."

Nick went silent again, and Natalie eyed him with some  
concern. Perhaps she should not have been so candid. "That  
sounds as if it covers the important points," he said at  
last. "But with that description, she must have wondered what  
you were doing with me. You must have wondered yourself."

"I was putting it as harshly as I could. By that time I  
was furious with myself for having anything to do with you,"  
Natalie said. "But she was great. The day I told her all  
this, she waited until I was done, and then she just said,  
'he must have been pretty special, for you to love him so  
much.' That opened the floodgates. I cried for the entire  
hour, that session and the next. After that things progressed  
quite quickly. She helped me forgive myself. And she helped  
me to see how hard you must have tried, all along, not to  
hurt me.

"In the end I realized you were doing the best you could  
at the time", she concluded. "How could I not forgive you?"

"I'm not sure I deserve it," said Nick.

"Nobody ever deserves to be forgiven," said Nat. "That's  
the whole point. Fortunately it's free."

"I don't really understand that," said Nick.

"It'll come to you," said Nat. There was a pause. Natalie  
polished off the second slice of pizza and contemplated the  
platter. Perhaps one more slice.

"Go ahead", Nick urged, seeing the direction of her gaze.  
"It's for the baby."

Natalie's lips twitched. "Well, when you put it that way."  
She slid another piece onto her plate. "It's awfully good,"  
she added. "I've always been sorry you can't eat."

"If I could, I don't think I'd start with pizza", Nick  
said.

"You don't know what you're missing either." Natalie was  
no longer as hungry as she had been. She nibbled at one edge  
of the slice and thought over their conversations. Nick had  
said a great deal, but somehow he had still managed to be  
less than forthcoming about how he'd spent the time since  
he'd left Toronto. Well, try the direct approach. She  
swallowed. "So how have you spent the last five years?" she  
asked.

There was a pause. "Pretty quietly", said Nick at last.

"So if I get bored I'll stop you." She kept her eyes fixed  
on his face, and settled down to listen. If he really didn't  
want to talk about it, that was his business; but she wasn't  
going to make it easy for him to fall into his old secretive  
habits.

Nick shrugged. "I was - thinking about my life, mostly".  
Natalie nodded encouragement. He paused, and seemed to be  
ordering his thoughts.

"That night I nearly killed you was a terrible shock to  
me." he began. "You must know that you were - are - very  
important to me. I know you were sometimes frustrated with  
me." To put it mildly, thought Natalie. "But despite that,  
you'd always done your very best to help me. I know - " he  
waved off Natalie's attempt to interrupt - "your motives  
weren't entirely disinterested. It doesn't matter. You were  
still trying to help, you had treated me with kindness and  
concern, and I'd rewarded you by killing you, or close. I  
couldn't figure out how we had got there, from where we  
began. Things had started out so well. I'd had such hope. We  
both had. What went wrong?

"Once I was sure you would live, I went back to Paris with  
LaCroix. I lived with him for a few months. I can't have been  
much fun." He gave her a wry smile. "I refused to go anywhere  
or do anything. I wouldn't talk to anyone. I wouldn't even  
listen to music, let alone play. I didn't bother to turn the  
lights on unless someone else was in the room. I sat in the  
dark night after night.

"I despaired. I finally understand the meaning of despair.  
It means you have no hope at all. I knew that of course, from  
the French, but I'd never really experienced it before. I'd  
always thought that there was something else to try, some new  
approach I hadn't thought of yet. But everything I'd tried,  
for so long, seemed to go so horribly wrong, and now my last  
attempt, with you, had ended in utter disaster.

"What was even worse, you were gone. You had always given  
me hope when I was losing it. Even when you didn't have some  
new approach to try, you always had boundless cheerful  
optimism that something would come to you, that we would find  
a way, and the cure was just around the corner. I felt better  
just being around you. But instead of finding a cure, you  
were nearly dead yourself. My hope was gone. There seemed  
nowhere else to turn. I felt finally trapped. I was lost.

"Meanwhile LaCroix tried to entertain me. He really did  
his best. He couldn't understand what was wrong. You were  
alive, after all. I was alive. I was in Paris, the greatest  
city on earth, especially for those who live only at night.  
Every pleasure the world had to offer lay at my feet. And I  
sat in the dark and brooded. He did what he could. In the old  
days he would have beaten and insulted me, forced me to  
behave as he wished. But to his credit, he seems finally to  
have realised that those methods don't work on me. Or perhaps  
he just tired of them. In any event, he treated me quite  
well, for LaCroix. He even supplied me with cow's blood when  
I refused to drink human.

"But finally one night he told me he couldn't stand it  
anymore. Knowing he was going to come home every morning to  
my long face in his parlour was taking the pleasure from his  
own life. He asked me to leave.

****

LaCroix leaned his shoulders against the  
mantlepiece in the darkened room. He sipped blood wine from a  
leaded crystal glass. "I said, good evening, Nicholas", he  
repeated gently. There was no response from the figure  
slumped on the couch before him, eyes resting blankly on the  
images flashing silently across the television screen. Nick  
continued surfing listlessly from one channel to the next. He  
didn't turn his head or acknowledge LaCroix' presence.

Behind him there was a faint snap as the glass  
stem broke in LaCroix' hand. He laid the base and bowl  
carefully on the table. Then, in a blur of speed, he stood  
beside Nick, holding the remote he had wrested from his hand.  
He turned the television off and threw the control against  
the far wall.

At last Nick looked up, wearing an irritated  
frown. "LaCroix, what the -"

LaCroix raised a finger to silence him. "No,  
Nicholas, I will speak." He waited until Nick subsided. "I  
used to enjoy your visits, mon cher. For old times' sake, I  
have endured your brooding, your boorishness, and your sullen  
ingratitude these last months. But even I have my limits. I  
have had enough of your dreariness. In your present mood,  
you're hardly an amusing guest.

"Eight hundred years ago I made you a priceless  
gift. It has been centuries since you've appreciated it as  
you should. What point is there in immortal life when you  
waste it sulking? I have done my best to help you realise the  
advantages of your position. But I'm weary of the effort.

"So I make you another gift. Take your freedom.  
It's what you've always said you wanted. Go where you please,  
do as you wish. The workings of your guilt-ridden psyche  
cease to entertain me. Take it elsewhere. Continue your  
pathetic obsession with mortal affairs if you wish. I will  
not interfere. Stay in touch or not as you choose. I won't  
press you further, Nicholas. I have more interesting ways to  
spend my time than acting as nursemaid to you."

Nick stared up at him numbly. "You mean it."

"I don't simply 'mean it', Nicholas. I insist  
on it. I have tired of this. Do as you wish. It's your life."  
LaCroix poured himself a fresh glass of blood wine from the  
decanter on the side table. "I don't seem to be helping you.  
I am no longer amused myself. So go." He looked at Nicholas  
over the rim of the glass as he drank. "By the end of the  
week, preferably."

Nick stood. He turned and walked to the window,  
pressing his forehead against the cool glass, and looked out  
onto the lights of Paris against the night sky. How much the  
city had changed; but he could still make out the outlines of  
the old Paris buried amid the new, his home ground for how  
many centuries now. He felt abruptly bereft, as if he was  
being thrust from his last refuge. He started to speak and  
stopped. LaCroix watched him, his lip curled with amusement.  
"Second thoughts, Nicholas? Are you sure that, after all,  
freedom is what you seek?"

"Yes, but - " he stopped again, took a breath,  
and turned to face LaCroix. "Yes. I thank you for your care,  
LaCroix. I apologize for being such poor company. I'll be  
gone by Friday." LaCroix inclined his head and turned away.  
Nick hesitated, then turned and left the room.

****

"He said he was giving me my freedom", Nick continued.  
"Freedom is a relative term, of course. I suspect if he heard  
that I'd gone on looking for a cure, he'd suffer a sudden  
relapse."

"Indeed," Natalie said, thinking of LaCroix' late-night  
visit.

"Still," Nick continued, "for the first time since I'd  
become a vampire, I felt I could decide my own life. It felt  
\- " he groped for words. "Lonely. For all those years, even  
from a distance, even as my enemy, LaCroix had been my  
constant companion. Fear of him had never been far from my  
thoughts. And now even he was gone. It was a huge relief, of  
course. But still, I felt I'd been cast utterly adrift, at  
the lowest point in my life. I was without LaCroix, or  
Janette, or you. And worse, I was without a purpose.

"I left Paris as soon as I could. It held centuries of  
memories, almost all as a vampire. There's hardly an alleyway  
or a deserted corner in the old city where I haven't killed  
some poor beggar, or unlucky miscreant, or respectable  
burgher out too late at night. There's hardly a deserted  
alcove or sewer entrance where I haven't stowed an  
inconvenient body, when I didn't have time to drop it in the  
Seine." He spoke quietly, looking Natalie full in the eyes.  
She blinked and drew back, partly in surprise. He had rarely  
spoken of his life as a killer to her, and never so bluntly.  
"I don't blame you for not wanting to hear that, Natalie," he  
said. "I don't want to say it. I don't want it to be true.  
But it is true, and that's what I have to find a way to live  
with."

Natalie nodded without speaking. He was right. She had  
never wanted to hear. She had never wanted to think of Nick,  
her Nick, as she had once hoped, as a cold-blooded murderer.  
It was hard to look into his angelic face and see a killer.  
She'd done her best to block that out of her mind, as far as  
she could, in her years in Toronto.

"I always told myself it didn't matter", she said  
eventually. "It wasn't what you were doing now. The past was  
the past. You weren't that person anymore."

"It is the past," Nick agreed. "But it still matters. I  
live with those memories every day. I have a perfect memory,  
Nat. And it's not just memory. Our past is part of who we  
are. That person made me. I am what that person became. He  
isn't gone." When Natalie didn't answer, he added, "I notice  
you haven't said that I just have to get over it and move  
on."

Natalie shook her head. "That's the kind of thing I used  
to say. I was a lot younger then." Nick's lips twitched. "I  
know, that sounds funny to you. But there's a lot of  
difference between the late twenties and late thirties. I  
used to deal with my past, the unpleasant parts, my parents'  
death, my grandmother's physical abuse, by walling it all up  
and doing my best to forget about it. I told myself I was  
'over all that'. As I get older I see that I wasn't at all. I  
was just refusing to deal with it. I didn't know then how  
much time, and how much work, it takes to really "get over"  
past pain, let alone guilt. And I have so much less than you  
to deal with.

"You know better than I do how much you need to "get over  
it and move on". But I no longer think it's an easy thing to  
do." She looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry I can't be  
more help."

Nick shook his head. "Just acknowledging that it's hard is  
help. Whenever I tried to say anything about it before, you  
used to brush off the conversation, change the subject. It  
made you uncomfortable."

"I didn't want to know, " said Natalie. "It wasn't  
something I could cure." She paused, and added, "Frankly, it  
still does. Make me uncomfortable. It bothers me a lot that  
you're a mass murderer. If I thought you'd killed anyone  
recently I'd phone the police myself." She stopped suddenly,  
and looked at him.

"No, of course not", Nick said. "Not for a long time.  
Except in police work, when I had to, once or twice."

"Not even Janette's killers?"

Nick was shaking his head. "No. I was as surprised as you  
were. That was LaCroix. At least, it must have been. It  
wasn't me." He thought a second. "Of course it could have  
been Janette herself. Certainly she had reason."

Her face cleared. "I 'm glad to hear it. I could  
understand your motive, but -"

"No. He smiled bitterly. "The only person I've drained in  
the last century is you, Nat."

"Don't torment yourself. I begged you to. And I lived."  
There didn't seem to be anything more to say. He would  
forgive himself, or he wouldn't. She touched his hand, a  
gesture of comfort, and he covered her hand gratefully with  
his. After a moment she withdrew it. "So what did you do  
after you left Paris?" she asked.

"I went to the former Duchy of Brabant. I rented a farm  
not far from my old home. The countryside is unrecognizable  
now, of course. The forests have been cut down, and a lot of  
the farmland is paved over. But what's still farmland feels  
familiar, like something I might have ridden past on a day's  
excursion as a boy. And I'd always tried to avoid hunting in  
Brabant, as much as I could, so my memories of the area are  
mostly pleasant. I even remember what it looks like in  
daylight." Natalie looked at him sympathetically. "I settled  
down there. I thought it would be helpful for me to return to  
my roots. And I thought over my life."

Nick's voice faded, his mind clearly wandering. His gaze  
fastened on the cooling pizza on the table between them. "I  
really do miss Schanke, you know," he said inconsequently.  
"He loved life so much. Being around him reminded me daily of  
why I wanted to be mortal."

"What, even his taste in music?"

Nick smiled. "Even the polka music. His enthusiasm for  
everything in his life was so - human. It was good for me to  
be around him. It really felt as if it was when he died that  
everything began to go wrong."

He looked abstractedly at the pizza, and shook himself.  
"Anyway. I stayed in the farmhouse for three years. I read a  
lot. I went for long walks through the fields in the  
evenings. I didn't go out past midnight because those used to  
be my prime hunting hours, and I didn't want to be reminded.  
Sometimes on my walks I'd meet a local, bicycling home after  
dark, and say hello. In the first year that's as much human  
contact as I had.

"Those walks were as close to coming home as I'll probably  
ever get in this life. There was a bend in the river near the  
farmhouse where we used to swim in summer when I was a boy.  
It was right on the edge of our lands; a long walk for a  
child, but it was worth it. The water was still and deep, and  
had a rock escarpment on one side, for jumping. The bank had  
silted up a lot, in eight centuries, but I could still  
recognize the place once I found it, on one of my evening  
rambles. After that I visited it often. I'd sit on the bank  
and dangle my feet in the water and remember swimming there  
with my older brother.

'But that time was gone. Not just my youth. My life. I  
could remember perfectly what the river looked like in  
daylight. But I could only visit in darkness. And then it  
smelled different. You know the smell of damp soil and river  
water and growing things, at night when it's still." Natalie  
nodded. "Part of the change was the smell of pollutants,  
chemical fertilizers and who knows what else washing down  
from the industrial parks upstream. But it wasn't just that.  
My sense of smell is so much sharper than it was when I was a  
boy. It's a different sense entirely, for a vampire. It's not  
just that the river smells different. I can't smell it the  
same way. And I can't see it in daylight. All reminders that  
what I was then, I had lost.

"I spent months walking out to that riverbank every night,  
sitting on it and remembering. And for the first time, I  
mourned my life. I wept. For months. I grieved for all that I  
lost, the night LaCroix brought me across. In all the years  
since, I'd never grieved before.

"For a long time, centuries, I refused to admit I'd lost  
anything that mattered that night. And when I couldn't deny  
it to myself anymore, I was furious, at LaCroix, at any  
murderer who stole the life of an innocent, at anyone who  
destroyed their own lives or other people's. At myself,  
really, of course. And when I had to admit that anger didn't  
ease the pain, and endangered the innocent too, I started  
trying to find a way out. Any way. That was when I began  
looking for a cure, a century ago. I thought, if I stop  
killing, and if I look very hard for a cure, surely this  
curse will be taken from me. Surely God will see that I'm  
sorry. And he'll give my life back to me.

"After the disasters in Toronto I simply stopped believing  
that would ever happen. I stopped believing there was any way  
out. Any way back to what I was. I fell, as I said, into  
despair.

"But it wasn't until I went back to Brabant, and spent  
most of that summer sitting on a riverbank, weeping, that I  
finally grieved what I lost, and what I had become instead.  
It wasn't until then that I accepted that my life was gone  
forever. Even if there were a cure, it wouldn't give me back  
the life I gave away. I can never go back to 1228, and choose  
again. I chose. I was wrong. I can't rewrite it. And the same  
is true of everything that's happened since. I can't change  
any of it. I can't make it not have happened."

Nick paused for a moment, staring at his hands on the  
table before him. Natalie took a sip of water from her glass,  
quietly, to avoid interrupting his train of thought.

"I'm glad LaCroix wasn't there," Nick went on in a low  
voice. "He would have ridiculed my weakness, and I would have  
felt forced to hide it from him. As it was, I spent months  
weeping. But eventually the tears stopped coming so  
frequently. One evening, towards the end of the first year, I  
woke up and realised that for the first time in centuries,  
although I was sad, I was at peace. I had finally accepted  
that I couldn't change the past. I can't resurrect the dead,  
either my victims or myself. All I can do is go on. And do my  
best to do better in future than I have in the past."

He stopped again, and seemed to have no inclination to  
continue. Natalie wasn't sure what conclusions he had  
reached. "So what did you decide to do?" she asked.

"What anyone does," said Nick. "Get on with my life. Make  
that my 'life'," he added with a ghost of a smile, sketching  
quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "Try to do as  
much good as I can, and as little evil. Try to remember to  
enjoy myself. I know you and Schanke would tell me to do  
that, so I try," he added.

"You make it sound like some noxious therapeutic exercise.  
Enjoy yourself, twice a week, whether you want to or not.'"

"That's how it feels, sometimes. It was worse to begin  
with, that first year in Brabant. I had to consciously  
persuade myself to do things I might enjoy. Go for a walk, go  
into town to see a play, read a book by an author I liked. I  
didn't want to do any of those things. That's not uncommon,  
for seriously depressed people, and that's what I was. But I  
don't want to spend as long as I'm likely to live being  
miserable. So I made a real effort to keep my spirits up. And  
I thought over what had made me feel good in the past.

" What always made me feel best, I realised, was feeling  
as if I was being some use, making the world a better place  
in some way. Police work did that, but it also let me indulge  
my vampiric tastes for hunting and for violence, and I think  
that's not good for me. At least not right now. So I spent  
the next few years casting around for good works to become  
involved in.

"After the first year, when I did nothing much, I arranged  
to run the daily operations of the Brabant foundation from  
the farmhouse. It was easy enough to do with a good computer  
hookup and a fax machine. I went into Paris every couple of  
months for a few nights, to handle what couldn't be done from  
the farm. And it kept me reasonably busy, filled in the hours  
from dusk to dawn pretty well. But the problem is that I'm a  
lousy administrator. You remember what I was like with  
paperwork."

"Your partners mentioned it. Frequently and colourfully."

"Exactly. And daily operations of the foundation were  
nothing but paperwork. I did the best I could, but I finally  
decided that - "

"Your talents were better suited to another role?" Natalie  
filled in.

"Any other role." Nick grimaced. "One good thing did come  
of that period, though. My relationship with LaCroix has  
greatly improved. A few months after I started coming in to  
Paris from time to time, LaCroix wrote to me at the farm.  
Obviously he was keeping tabs on me, but I expected that.  
Thick vellum, beautiful copperplate handwriting, probably  
written with a quill."

"Not a papyrus scroll?" asked Natalie. "He's moving with  
the times, I see."

"I think he just likes to look old-fashioned. He invited  
me to stop by the next time I was in Paris. So I did. We had  
a surprisingly pleasant evening. We stayed on neutral topics.  
I think we talked about early music. He was charming,  
courteous, and never once criticized or tried to pressure  
me." I'll bet, thought Nat. He's decided to try more subtle  
tactics, that's all. "As I left he told me I was welcome to  
visit when I was in town in future, with sufficient advance  
warning", Nick continued. "After that I stopped by every  
couple of months. We rarely stray into contentious subjects.  
He knows what I'm doing and finds it amusing, but he assumes  
I'll tire of it. He's always pleasant and interesting  
company. I enjoy our evenings."

He looked at Natalie, seeking her understanding. "The  
thing is, I've known him so long. I'd rather salvage the  
relationship than destroy it. If I can. He has caused me  
enormous pain over the years, but I can't blame him for  
everything. Even the night he brought me across, I had a  
choice." He paused. Natalie diplomatically held her tongue.  
"Besides", Nick said, "I think he's lonely."

Natalie could contain herself no longer. "Of course he is.  
No one in their right mind would trust him, and he's killed  
anyone who could have been a friend. That can lead to  
spending your nights alone."

"I know he's not a sterling character," Nick said stiffly.

"He's your friend," said Natalie. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't  
have said anything about him. But take care of yourself,  
Nick."

"Of course. I'm aware of his flaws, Nat."

And he can play you like a violin, thought Natalie. Time  
for a change of subject. "So what did you do after you gave  
up administration?" she asked.

"I added myself to the research department of the Brabant  
Foundation", said Nick. "My job for the last couple of years  
has been to investigate projects to which the Foundation  
might want to make a donation. It's useful work, but in fact  
I'm doing it mostly for myself, to find out what kind of work  
I would like to give not only money, but also my time and  
energy. So I left the farm in Brabant, stored my things in  
Paris, and I've moved around a lot."

"What sort of thing have you been doing?"

"All sorts. First I helped build a few houses with Habitat  
for Humanity, in the Southwest. The Brabant Foundation funded  
the materials, and suggested that Habitat try adding a night  
shift. The excuse was that a lot of volunteer builders have  
day jobs, but could spare a few hours in the evening or  
night. And that way I could help with the building myself.  
But the rate of minor accidents on the job went up. People  
who've been working all day aren't at their best on a  
building site at night. It was only a matter of time before  
there was a major accident. So I had to let that idea go."

"Did the Brabant Foundation continue to donate funds?"

"Of course. It's a good cause. After that, let's see, I  
drove a shelter bus scooping homeless men off the Edmonton  
streets one winter. Then I cooked for a soup kitchen in  
Minneapolis for a few months."

"You cooked?" said Natalie. "Where did you learn?"

"From the soup kitchen's cookbook. Anyone who can read can  
cook, Nat. I have to admit, though, it's not the most  
interesting work for a vampire. I wouldn't notice if I made  
mistakes. I accidentally put in sugar for salt once and  
didn't realise it because I never tasted the stuff myself. It  
was lonely, too, all by myself in the kitchen at night. So I  
moved on."

"What was after that?"

"The Foundation gave funding to a men's shelter in  
Tallahassee, and I worked there as a janitor for a bit. Back  
in Europe I worked as an assistant at a church detox center  
in Marseilles, and as homeless shelter volunteer in Zurich. I  
don't enjoy working in the Old World as much, though," he  
added. "Too many memories. I've also worked as an assistant  
in a childhood vaccination program in Benares. That was a lot  
like my work in Vietnam, when I was with the Red Cross. I  
would have liked to help dig some wells and lay water  
pipelines for the Foundation's clean water program in Congo,  
but I ran into the same problem as I did with Habitat.  
Generally construction work can only be done during the day,  
especially in the Third World, where it's too expensive to  
run lights at night. In between I'd go back to Paris and talk  
to the accountants, figure out what to do next."

"You've been very busy!" Natalie was fascinated. "Did you  
find any one kind of work appealed to you more than the  
others?"

"More or less. I find that I'm particularly attracted to  
work with the homeless, and with addicts. The homeless I  
think because they were my prey for so long."

"I thought you said you weren't trying to atone anymore?"

"That's not exactly what I said. I don't think I can earn  
forgiveness, and I can't erase past crimes. But - " Nick  
broke off, and thought. "Helping the homeless makes me feel  
better," he said at last. "That seems to me to be a good  
enough reason to do it."

Natalie shrugged assent. "Good enough. And why addicts, do  
you think?"

"It was no accident that you could tell your therapist I  
was an addict, Nat. I identify very closely with substance  
abusers. I know so well what it feels like to be driven by a  
blind compulsion to use, no matter what damage it does you,  
no matter what damage it does anyone else, no matter what you  
have to do to get your stuff, no matter that once you've got  
it, it gives only a brief respite before the hunger starts  
again. And again. Over, and over, and over." Nick's voice was  
low.

Natalie looked at him without speaking for a long moment.  
"Is it still as bad as it was?" she asked quietly.

"Not now, no." Natalie waited and after a moment he  
continued. "That last year in Toronto I backslid quite a lot.  
I let LaCroix give me human blood at the Raven more than  
once. I started stocking some in the loft for "emergencies".  
And there always seemed to be one. Every time I drank it was  
during some sort of crisis, and I would convince myself that  
I needed it just this once. Every time was always going to be  
the last time. I didn't even notice that it was happening  
more often, or wonder if I was manufacturing crises in order  
to have an excuse to drink human again.

"Then after the night I thought I'd killed you, the  
appetite came roaring back full force. It was intense. All I  
wanted was human blood. It was almost as bad as the First  
Hunger. But I couldn't do it. Out of respect for you, I  
couldn't. If there was one thing I could do for you, for your  
memory, it was give up human blood. If I'd done it sooner I  
wouldn't have endangered your life. So I refused. I tried to  
stick to protein shakes but I just couldn't. I'm sorry." He  
looked at Natalie apologetically.

She shook her head. "Don't apologise to me, Nick. It was  
your business what you drank."

"But you used to nag me about it regularly."

"I know. That's called 'codependence'", Natalie said. " I  
should have supplied you with the protein shakes and then  
just stepped back. Deciding whether to drink them was your  
concern, not mine."

Nick frowned. "I don't think your nagging was a bad thing  
for you to do at all. It meant you cared about me. I'm sure I  
drank more of that wretched stuff - I mean, that wonderful  
elixir," he hastily added over Natalie's shout of laughter,  
"because you nagged me about it."

"Well, I did care about you," Natalie said. "But all  
nagging did was turn me into your mother." Now it was Nick's  
turn to laugh. "No, really," Natalie insisted. "Nagging  
turned you into a five year old who wouldn't drink his milk.  
But you're an adult. It was your choice."

"Anyway." Nick sobered. "After a couple of days on what  
protein shakes I had left, I went back to cows' blood. I had  
a very bad couple of weeks. I stayed in the loft partly  
because I was afraid of what I'd do if I were surrounded by  
humans. Even hearing a bus go by in the street outside  
tormented me. I'd imagine it full of unsuspecting people,  
ripe for the picking. I fantasized about going out to Yonge  
St. at night, just to smell the crowds, I told myself, I  
wouldn't actually take any. I had more sense than to go out  
the door. LaCroix was helpful there. Of course it would have  
endangered the community if I'd gone on a killing spree. But  
he kept me from leaving the loft, supplied me with cows'  
blood and anything else I needed so I had no excuse to go  
out.

"By the end of the second week the hunger had subsided  
some, but it was still worse than it had been for years. The  
horrible part was that I knew that draining you was what had  
ignited it. I'd 'mainlined' again, and the addiction had  
roared back full force. I felt as if I deserved the pain I  
was in, because I'd brought it on myself by nearly killing  
you. So I didn't give in to it. I stuck to cows' blood  
despite everything LaCroix could do to persuade me.

"The months I spent in Paris with LaCroix weren't as bad  
as those first few weeks, but still worse than anything I'd  
suffered in the last century or more. Even once I went to the  
farm the hunger didn't fade much. It was hard. I woke up in a  
blood sweat most evenings. I had horrible dreams. I was  
acutely sensitive to heartbeats. That was one reason I  
retired to the farmhouse. I was afraid to be around humans  
for fear of what I might do. The hunger would fade for weeks  
and then inexplicably return full force. I felt as if all the  
work we'd done, all the progress I'd made with you, had all  
come to nothing."

"I feel terrible, Nick," said Natalie. Tears stood in her  
eyes. "I brought this on you. I should never have pressed you  
that night. I'm so sorry!"

Nick laid his hand over hers reassuringly. "Don't, Nat. I  
think we already agreed that neither of us were at our best  
that night. Let's just not do it again."

Natalie nodded, too shaken to say more. Nick patted her  
hand and went on.

"I still didn't succumb. But one night I finally couldn't  
take anymore. I remembered what I'd heard at that AA group I  
went into undercover, that I should turn my problems over to  
a higher power. I thought that was pretty laughable at the  
time. Since I became a vampire I've never seen any point in  
praying, because why would God listen to something like me?  
But I just couldn't go on. And I couldn't think of anything  
else to do. So I prayed for help. "

He paused, remembering that night.

***

He had been sitting at the kitchen table in the  
farmhouse, head in his hands. He'd been there for at least an  
hour, afraid to move lest he go out the door and into the  
night, in search of an unlucky local. His muscles were stiff  
with the effort of resisting his need, clothes drenched and  
face slick with blood sweat. He'd shifted position slightly  
for the sake of comfort, and his elbow slid on the smooth  
wood of the tabletop. A small sliver found its way into his  
arm. It was painful out of all proportion to the size of the  
wound.

Something inside him snapped. He screamed with  
frustration and pounded the table with his fists, breaking  
through it with the force of the blows. A dozen more  
splinters entered his hands but he ignored them, pounding on  
the table again and again until it was reduced to splintered  
kindling. He had looked down at the ruin, hands and forearms  
running with blood from a score of scratches and cuts. His  
throat was hoarse and he realised that he was shouting, over  
and over, I can't stand this! I can't stand this! I can't  
stand this! Abruptly, he realised it was true. He could go no  
farther. He was certain to kill again.

He sagged to his knees and without any thought  
or preparation, began to pray. He hadn't prayed in nearly  
eight centuries. Later he was astonished. At the time it  
seemed the only thing he could do. He could feel blood tears  
trickling down his cheeks. His voice began barely audibly,  
but gained in strength. "I'm sorry. God. I'm sorry," he heard  
himself saying. "I don't know if you even listen to people  
like me. But I'm sorry. I'd take it all back if I could.  
Please forgive me. Please help me now. I can't take anymore.  
I'll do anything. But I can't do it without your help. Please  
help me."

He had remained on his knees for a long time.  
He couldn't feel any change. I'm still a vampire, he thought  
eventually, disappointed, and embarrassed when he realised  
what a childish hope he had harboured. If I can get through  
the next twenty-four hours without killing someone, that will  
be miracle enough, he finally thought wearily, and stood up  
unsteadily, feeling suddenly very tired. He rubbed his face  
and stumbled to the couch, where he fell into a dreamless  
sleep.

***

Nick came back to the present with a jerk and realised  
that Natalie was looking at him inquiringly. "After that  
things gradually improved", he continued. "I hoped for a  
miracle, that the craving would instantly vanish completely  
or something, and when I woke up the next evening I was so  
disappointed that it hadn't. My first thought was "it hasn't  
worked." But I did feel a little better than I had, able to  
function. I had a shower and went out for a walk. And I  
decided that I was just going to have to trust that God was  
doing something about the problem now. But not necessarily on  
my timetable.

"I found the swimming hole on a walk a couple of nights  
after that. And, I don't know, the craving was never as bad  
again. In the last few years it's gradually gotten much  
easier. I can't say I never feel the hunger, but it's much  
fainter. I don't think about it much. It would be nice to be  
able to get off cows' blood. I think of it as methadone.  
Maybe someday."

"I'm sorry," Nick added, seeming a little embarrassed,  
when she didn't immediately respond to his story. "That's  
probably more than you wanted to hear, Nat."

"Not at all!" Natalie had been too absorbed to say  
anything at first. "And have you kept on? Praying for help, I  
mean?"

"Kind of. It still makes me pretty nervous. I find it hard  
to believe God wants to hear from something like me. But  
whenever the craving was particularly strong, after that  
night, I would think something like, God, please do something  
about this, because I can't."

"And it helped?"

"It seemed to. And eventually the craving died down  
generally. Who's to say why?"

"Who indeed?" Natalie agreed. "So, where to from here? Are  
you still looking for a cure?"

Nick shrugged slightly. "Not obsessively. I certainly  
wouldn't turn one down if it were offered. But I realise now  
that what I was looking for before wasn't so much a cure, as  
a quick fix. Do you remember the time I tried to induce a  
near-death experience, to go back to the gate and choose  
again?"

"And you were dead for ten minutes, and I had to inject  
you with rat poison to bring you back?" asked Natalie.  
"Vividly."

"I thought at the time that the lesson I was supposed to  
learn was that forgiveness had to be earned. Now I think the  
lesson was, there's no quick fix," said Nick. "I made a  
decision eight hundred years ago. That decision had  
consequences. When I tried to go back to the gate and choose  
again, I was looking for a quick way out, a way to escape  
those consequences, by dying.

"Looking for a cure was another attempt at a quick fix.  
For eight hundred years I've been a vampire. A serial killer.  
A monster who preys on the guiltless. Somehow I'd been  
assuming that becoming mortal again would restore my  
innocence as well, and erase all I've been and done.

"But innocence is the one thing I can never have back.  
I've killed thousands. Their deaths affected tens, hundreds,  
of thousands more. A cure won't turn the clock back. It won't  
restore those robbed lives, or wash that blood from my hands.  
Maybe someday I'll be mortal again, but I'll still be a  
mortal who was once a vampire. A cure for vampirism can't rid  
me of my past. There's no quick fix for that.

"Even when I asked LaCroix to kill me, that night in  
Toronto, I was trying to escape the consequences of my own  
act. I thought I couldn't live with the pain, and I tried to  
evade it by committing suicide. But I see now that I don't  
get that choice.

"I was working with the police as atonement for my sins,  
or so I thought. By saving lives, when I could, and by  
bringing murderers to justice, I thought I could somehow  
compensate for all the murders I myself committed. And police  
work is a worthwhile thing to do, but I see now that there's  
no such thing as compensation for past crimes.

"I think now that my atonement isn't police work, or good  
deeds of any kind. Real atonement is simply bearing the  
consequences of my actions - my own pain and loneliness - as  
best I can, for as long as I have to. I don't have to make it  
worse for myself, by hiding in a cave somewhere and flogging  
myself or something. That would be pointless. I can try to  
alleviate it by any means I wish that doesn't involve doing  
wrong. But I have to live with the pain I have. Just as  
anyone does. And if I have more pain, more guilt, more  
horrible memories than most, I truly brought it on myself.

"I have repented of my sins. I began to do that a long  
time ago. But penitence doesn't erase consequences. It was my  
mistake to think that there was a quick way to be released  
from this life, by death or by becoming mortal, once I didn't  
want it anymore. I think my punishment is perhaps that it may  
be a very, very long time before I am."

He looked up at her. "Did you ever read 'The Gulag  
Archipelago'?"

"Uh, I got partway through volume one."

Nick smiled. "It is pretty grim going. There's a story  
partway through volume three, I think it is." Natalie knew he  
remembered perfectly, but the pretense of forgetfulness, like  
the pretense of breathing, was second nature to him now.  
"Solzhenitzyn tells about an old woman who was sent to the  
same concentration camp as he was, in Siberia. She was a  
blameless old grandmother, as far as anyone could tell, and  
deeply religious. She had a life sentence, like everyone in  
the camp. But she never insisted on her innocence, as  
everyone else in the camp did. She said that she was a  
miserable sinner, though she didn't say how, and that she  
would be released from the camp when God forgave her sins.  
Everyone made fun of her faith. But in two years, a pardon  
arrived for her, and only for her, and she went home.

"I have faith that when my sins are forgiven, I'll be  
allowed to come home. One way or the other. By dying as a  
mortal, or just by dying. I hope I'll find a way to spend  
some time as a mortal first. But if it doesn't happen, it  
doesn't."

Natalie thought this over. "Maybe it doesn't have anything  
to do with forgiveness", she said at last. Nick arched an  
eyebrow. "Maybe you're still alive because there's a lot of  
good you're meant to do before you die," she went on. "I  
mean, you've repented. You're resolved to lead a better life.  
Why wouldn't you already be forgiven? Why would it take a  
long time?"

"Give me a break, Nat. It's a major step for me to believe  
I can ever be forgiven at all."

Natalie smiled. "Good point."

"And you've forgotten something. I'm a medieval Catholic.  
In my day they were big on atonement. Also on confession,  
absolution, and taking Communion."

"Well, if you think those things will help you, you should  
do them," said Natalie.

Nick looked at her in surprise. "This is Dr. Lambert I'm  
speaking to?"

"This is Dr. Lambert ten years on", said Natalie. "When  
you met me, I would never have considered speaking to a  
therapist, either. Now I'd say, take whatever help you can  
get, in whatever form works best for you. If confession will  
help you, do it."

"Making careful choice of a confessor," Nick said.

Natalie's lips twitched. "I wouldn't pick one with a heart  
condition."

"No." Nick smiled in response. "I am thinking about it,  
Nat. It takes some working up to. Perhaps the heretics are  
right, and a priest isn't necessary."

"Protestants you mean."

"I was born in the twelfth century. I know what I meant."  
But he smiled.

Natalie considered the now-cold pizza left on her plate  
and decided against it. "But you still think there's some  
point in looking for a cure?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," said Nick. "I don't think it's a bad thing to  
want, to be mortal again. I just won't be doing it for the  
same reasons. I won't be doing it to erase my guilt anymore.  
The past is the past. I can't alter it." He shrugged.  
"Anyway, if I don't keep looking for a cure, I'll never know  
if I was meant to find one. Fatalistic, isn't it."

"Not really," said Natalie. "'God helps those who help  
themselves'."

The café had fallen silent, and when Natalie looked  
around her she realised to her surprise that they were the  
only clients left. She checked her watch. "Oh my gosh. Nick,  
I have to get home! I'm sorry, I - "

"Not at all." He was already rising; Natalie followed him,  
pulling on her coat. "I wasn't keeping track of the time. I  
know you need rest. Should we call a cab?""

"It's probably faster to walk than wait for one." The  
waiter had come over with the bill when he saw them stand.  
Natalie waved off Nick's credit card and got out her own.  
"You got the movie, Nick. And it's not as if you ate  
anything." She signed the credit slip and turned back to him.  
"Shall we?"

"Would you like to wrap the rest of the pizza to take with  
you?" Nick asked.

"Cold pizza for breakfast, that delicacy of my student  
days?" Natalie looked at it longingly, but shook her head.  
"Not till the morning sickness wears off."

Nick held the door for her. "Has it been bad?"

Natalie shook her head. "Compared to some of my patients,  
I can't complain."

A damp wind had sprung up while they were in the  
café. Natalie looked up at the darkened, lowering sky.  
The few stars had been blotted out by thick clouds. "It's  
coming on to rain." She nodded towards the park. "Let's cut  
through there. It's quicker." She set out across the street,  
leaving Nick on the curb.

"I thought jaywalking was illegal in Vancouver," Nick said  
as he caught up to her.

"So arrest me. Oh, that's right, you can't." Natalie  
grinned. "So what is an ex-cop doing in Vancouver anyway?"  
she asked as she started down the path. "You haven't said."

"Haven't I?" Nick thought back. "You're right, I haven't."  
He followed Natalie into the park. "I'm setting up a branch  
of the Brabant Foundation in Vancouver. It will specialize in  
funding addiction research initiatives, but will also fund  
some rehab programs and community outreach on the east side."

"We can certainly use it," Natalie said. "The heroin  
problem in Vancouver is only getting worse. Not just on the  
east side, either." She looked at him curiously. "So what  
will your role in this be?"

"Set-up, for now," Nick said. "I'm setting up the office,  
hiring staff, arranging to apply for matching funds from the  
provincial government, and helping to establish the rehab and  
outreach programs. After that, if it's going well, I'll hand  
over administration to someone who likes it. Then I thought I  
might volunteer to do street outreach. That's best done at  
night, so it fits my schedule."

Natalie's head swivelled towards him. "So you're thinking  
of staying in Vancouver for awhile," she said flatly.

"Maybe. If - if it suits you, Nat. I mean, if you don't  
mind." Nick faltered under the full force of Natalie's clear  
blue gaze.

"Why Vancouver? There are lots of cities with drug  
problems. Seattle. L.A. Atlanta. Nanaimo, for heaven's sake.  
Why pick here?" Natalie was caught off-balance. Seeing Nick  
occasionally when he happened to be in town was one thing.  
But Nick in Vancouver full-time? She'd left Toronto partly,  
largely, to avoid the memories of Nick that haunted every  
street. And now he was planning to invade her new territory  
too? A friend of hers had once said she wished her  
ex-boyfriends would move to desert islands so she didn't need  
to fear tripping over them every time she turned a corner or  
went into a café. Suddenly Natalie knew exactly how  
she felt.

Nick studied the play of emotions across her face. His  
shoulders sagged a little under his jacket. "You don't seem  
too pleased," he said.

Natalie realised they were standing stock still. A cold  
wind was blowing up and she could feel the first chill drops  
of rain on her face. She turned away from him and continued  
down the asphalt path, her hands buried deep in her jacket  
pockets. "Honestly?" she said without looking at him. "My  
first reaction is no, I'm not. I left Toronto to get away  
from you. Memories of you. I don't want to have to leave  
Vancouver too." She was appalled to hear the words leave her  
mouth. Well, better he should know how she really felt.

"Nat! No. My God, I'm sorry." Nick caught up and turned to  
face her. "If it makes you uncomfortable, I will leave. I  
don't have to be in Vancouver. I can do this kind of work in  
a lot of places. I just -" She was walking fast, not  
responding. "Nat, you're the only mortal friend I've got."

"You're a nice guy. You make friends easily enough. Go get  
some more."

Nick seemed taken aback. "You know that's different", he  
said after a moment. "You're the only one who knows what I  
am."

"That doesn't have to be the case. Just choose carefully."  
Natalie was still stunned. She needed to think this over. Why  
was she angry? Would it be so bad to have Nick in the same  
city? In a way it was flattering that he wanted to be. But  
why did he want it? A possible answer came to her. She  
stopped dead and faced him. "I'm your proof, aren't I."

"I don't understand."

"I'm the one that lived. I'm the proof that knowing you  
doesn't have to be lethal. That's why you want to stay in  
touch."

"No, I - " Nick stopped, and Natalie watched him discard  
his automatic denial. "Not only that. You're the one that  
believed in me, Nat. You're the only one for centuries. It's  
been hard, the last five years, trying to be human without  
you. I'll keep on trying anyway. I have to. But it was a so  
much easier when you were around."

It was hard not to be touched. "I'm glad to hear knowing  
me had some effect," Natalie said. She turned and walked on,  
head down against the wind. It was carrying more rain now;  
her coat was damp.

"Oh, it did," Nick said, following in her wake. "The last  
person who believed in me was Joan. Of Arc", he added to her  
inquiring look. "Your faith meant more to me than you can  
imagine."

"I'm not a counsellor, Nick," Natalie said. "And I mean  
it, I'm not looking for your cure."

He was shaking his head. "I know. That's not what I want.  
I'd just like to be able to talk to you sometimes."

"Be friends."

"Unless you have an objection."

Natalie sighed. "I don't know, Nick. This is all moving  
way too fast for me. I don't even think I'm the person you  
miss anymore. I haven't seen that cheerful optimist in years  
myself."

"Yes, I agree." Natalie looked up in surprise. "This is  
going too fast," he continued. "We shouldn't even be having  
this conversation now. Let's not try to decide things in  
advance, Nat. Why don't we go one step at a time, and just  
see how it goes, as you said before?"

Natalie had an uneasy feeling she was being politely  
railroaded. "But you said you were moving to Vancouver.  
That's damn fast."

"It's only a possibility. I don't have to." Nick touched  
her arm, drawing her around to face him. "Honest. Nat. I  
won't move here without your express permission."

Nat felt a little ashamed at his obvious sincerity. "I'm  
sorry, Nick," she said. "I don't suppose I have any right to  
tell you where you can live."

Nick shrugged. "I have a right to take your opinion into  
account, though. Look, I'll be back in town at the end of the  
month for a few days. Can we just say I'll give you a call  
then? Maybe we could get together for coffee. You can tell me  
how the pregnancy's going." He grinned engagingly at her.

Natalie couldn't help but soften at his smile. "Sure," she  
said, relenting. "It will depend on my patients, though - I  
have three who could go into labour around that time. I'm  
hoping they don't all pick the same night."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed, then."

Nick released her arm and Natalie looked up at the sky. A  
genuine rain was beginning to fall. "We'd better move, Nick -  
this coat isn't waterproof." She set off at a quick pace down  
the path, Nick beside her. Despite their speed, by the time  
they reached her building Natalie's hair was wet. She turned  
at the door and held out her hand to him in a polite  
handshake. "I'd better get upstairs and dry off before I get  
chilled. It was good to see you, Nick. Please do feel free to  
call when you're next in town."

Nick smiled and touched her fingers briefly. "Of course,  
but may I pick up my files? We left them upstairs."

Natalie dropped her hand, feeling awkward. So much for a  
quick, neat leavetaking. "I forgot. Come on up".

They were silent in the elevator. As they reached her door  
Nick asked, "would it be all right if I looked through the  
files before I left, in case I have any questions? It  
shouldn't take long; most of it we must have discussed in  
Toronto. We can leave it, if you don't have time."

Natalie hesitated and consulted her watch. "I can give you  
half an hour," she said. "I don't mean to sound inhospitable,  
but I am tiring easily these days."

He nodded in understanding. "Of course. I don't want to  
tire you out."

"I don't usually go to bed until after the news anyway",  
Natalie said as she opened the door. "I'll be fine." She  
nodded him through the door and followed him, pulling off her  
coat. "You can hang your jacket on the rack there", she said.  
"I'm just going to grab a towel for my hair, do you want  
one?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Nick murmured, distracted by the  
contents of the portfolio, which he had already picked up and  
unzipped.

"Can you turn on the TV?" Natalie called through the  
bathroom door. "I'd just like to catch the headlines. It's  
already on the station."

"Sure. " Nick wandered through to the living room, leafing  
through Natalie's meticulous notes on all the tests and  
treatments she had conducted in the six years in Toronto. He  
found the TV remote and pressed the power button as he  
settled down on the couch and began to read from the  
beginning. He'd never seen it all collected in one place.

He became absorbed in the file, and it was a few moments  
before he registered the voice from the television and looked  
up at the screen. He started to call out, stopped, and went  
to knock on the bathroom door. "Nat. You'd better come and  
see this."

"What?" Natalie stuck her head out the door, her hair  
half-dry, a towel around her neck.

"There's something from Sierra Leone on the news."

"What?" Natalie looked at his face, alarmed, and brushed  
past him to the living room. She could tell from his  
expression it was nothing good.

The footage onscreen showed a burning schoolhouse. As they  
watched the roof caved in in a shower of sparks, and black  
smoke billowed into the sky. A dusty van with the MSF logo  
stood by the building. Two youths in uniform ran by,  
submachine guns at the ready. Over the crackle of the flames  
and the sound of voices shouting or screaming offscreen the  
announcer's voice was saying, '... early this evening in Magburaka, Sierra Leone. Rebel forces are  
claiming credit for the bombing, which destroyed the Doctors  
Without Borders vaccination clinic. Some staff escaped, and  
it is believed ... "

Natalie was staring at the screen. "Nat, what is it?" Nick  
said urgently, seeing the expression on her face.

"The door."

Nick looked and inhaled sharply. Half-in and half-out of  
the door, partially obscured by the truck, was a body, one  
hand flung out towards the street, as if its owner had died  
trying to crawl out of the building. It was burnt beyond  
recognition; he couldn't even tell if it was male or female.  
"Nat, you don't know who - " he began.

"The watch," Natalie said. She was staring at the screen  
without blinking. "See the two-tone face?" The watch face was  
almost too small to make out, but it did seem to have an  
inner darker disk surrounded by a larger lighter one. "It's a  
toony. A Canadian two-dollar coin. The Royal Mint sells them.  
I gave the watch to him before he left, so he'd have  
something to remember Canada by.

"It's Marcus, Nick." Tears were streaming down her face  
now. "It's Marcus."

Nick hesitated, and laid his hand on her shoulder in  
wordless sympathy. She didn't seem to notice it.

As if on cue, the phone rang. "That will be Claire",  
Natalie said, rising. "Marcus' sister." She walked over to  
the side table, still streaming tears, and took the handset  
into the next room. Nick could hear fragments of the  
conversation but refrained from listening. After a short time  
she returned and hung up. She looked exhausted, and suddenly  
ten years older. She passed an unsteady hand over her wet  
face.

"MSF called her half an hour ago. That was Marcus'  
clinic." She paused and swallowed. "I'm going over to her  
place to spend the night. I'll just get a couple of things.  
Can you let yourself out? I don't want to rush you or - "

Nick had already risen from the couch. "I'll leave with  
you. Can I escort you anywhere?"

Natalie shook her head. "I can drive. I'll drop you off at  
your hotel."

"Nat, the state you're in, you shouldn't be driving. I'll  
drive you over in your car and leave it there."

"But how will you get back to - oh, right. You'll fly."  
Natalie closed her eyes. "Good idea. I'm not thinking too  
clearly." She walked towards her bedroom for a change of  
clothes. One hand went unconsciously to her abdomen.

Nick's nostrils flared. "Nat?" She turned her head, and he  
said gently, "I smell blood. Maybe you better check." She  
looked puzzled, then shocked.

"Oh no." She rushed into the bathroom. He could hear the  
rustle of clothing. A moment later her voice came back.  
"There is. Not much, thank God." She ran back out to the  
phone, dialing with one hand while she finished buttoning her  
waistband with the other, oblivious to his presence. "Page  
Dr. Sanjit Singh, please. Tell her it's an emergency." She  
waited at the phone, pacing nervously back and forth, until  
another voice came on the line. Again she took it into the  
other room. Nick heard isolated phrases. "Light  
spotting...no, no pain ... uh, let me check ... no, it's not  
..."

Natalie reappeared, still holding the phone. ""Sanjit  
thinks it's okay. I just need to rest. Lie down. Damn. I told  
Claire I'd be there by now." She looked around, distracted.  
"I have to get some clothes together."

"Nat." Nick crossed the room and took the phone quietly  
from her hand. "I'm sure Claire will understand. What you  
need to do now is rest."

"But she needs me."

"And you need to lie down right now. And rest. Rushing  
around won't help the baby. You know that. Lie down. Reassure  
the baby. Tell the baby everything is okay. Rest." Nick led  
her towards her couch as he spoke, and gently urged her to  
sit down, moving her feet up onto the couch. His soothing  
voice had its effect and Natalie relaxed into the cushions.

"You're right." She smiled wanly. "I should call Claire."

"I can do that if you like. Would you like her to come  
here instead?"

"She has enough to deal with right now." She closed her  
eyes wearily. "I can't believe Marcus is dead. " She lay  
silently while Nick rearranged a pillow under her head. It  
was a moment before he saw the silent tears that had begun to  
flow again from under her closed lids. He stroked her hand  
awkwardly. There seemed nothing he could say. After a moment  
she spoke in so faint a voice that her words didn't initially  
register. "I'm so scared I'll lose the baby."

"Don't be," Nick said firmly, continuing to stroke her  
hand. If he could do nothing else, he could help her calm  
down. "Everything will be fine. You'll have a fine healthy  
baby. Don't worry. The baby is just fine. You can relax now."  
His voice continued, low and hypnotic, and Natalie gradually  
relaxed, lulled by the sound. She felt as if she was rocking  
on soft, soothing waves. She could not have said when she  
fell asleep.

Nick waited until he was sure she was asleep. The marks of  
worry and grief had gradually smoothed from her face as she  
dropped off. She looked more peaceful, though an anxious line  
still appeared between her eyebrows. He reached out and  
stroked it gently, until that, too, relaxed.

He found Natalie's address book in the drawer of the side  
table, and called Claire from the next room. That duty done,  
he came back into the living room and settled himself  
comfortably into the loveseat for a night's vigil by her  
side. The smell of blood was fainter now, and he was fairly  
sure she was out of danger. But if she needed him, he would  
be there.

  


###   
§§§§§§§§§§


	4. Five Years Later: Knights Errant Part Two

§§§

Disclaimer: I don't own the FK characters, Sony/Tristar et  
al. do; I just get to play with them.

§§§

  


### Vancouver

Natalie awoke on her living room couch in the pearl-grey  
predawn light. She had been covered with a blanket from her  
linen closet while she slept. Nick was sitting quietly on the  
loveseat beside her head, reading a notebook she recognized as  
her own, containing notes from her research in Toronto, years  
before. He sat inhumanly still, only his eyes moving,  
flickering across the page. She rolled her head forward to ease  
the tension in her neck, and he turned immediately to look at  
her. "Natalie. You're awake. How do you feel?" He set the  
notebook down and rose to come to her side.

"Um, fine. Stiff." She felt disoriented for a moment. What  
was he doing here? Why was she on the couch? Her eye lit on the  
now-darkened television, and memory abruptly flooded back.  
"Marcus." Suddenly she felt hollow and sick. How could she have  
forgotten? "He's dead, isn't he." Nick said nothing, but when  
she threw off the blanket and started to rise, he touched her  
shoulder.

"Nat, take a deep breath. You need to stay calm."

"Why? I - " Nat wanted to say that it felt like an insult to  
Marcus' memory to think of remaining calm. She stood up,  
ignoring Nick's assisting hand. She was furious with herself.  
She had been out enjoying herself at a silly movie while Marcus  
was being murdered, half a world away. She felt as if she'd  
betrayed his memory just by sleeping. While she lay comfortably  
unconscious, he lay in the dirt outside his clinic, cold and  
unburied. She wanted to scream and cry, throw things, mourn  
Marcus as he deserved to be mourned. Be calm? Was he insane?  
She was abruptly, unreasonably, enraged with Nick. What was he  
doing in her living room? How dare he intrude on her world, on  
her grief? She opened her mouth to order him out of the  
apartment.

Nick glanced warningly at her abdomen, and the rest of  
Natalie's half-awakened memory suddenly returned. She looked  
down at herself, her mouth still foolishly open. One hand  
automatically went to her stomach. "Of course. You're right.  
Though it's never been proved that an emotional shock ..."

"I'm sure you don't want to take any unnecessary risks,"  
said Nick.

Natalie nodded numbly and sat back down heavily on the  
couch. Her legs were rubbery. "Thanks for staying," she  
muttered, her attention on herself. No cramping at least. That  
was good. She only half-heard him speaking.

"I didn't want to leave you alone, in case you needed to get  
to the hospital quickly. I think you're all right though. I can  
smell a little fresh blood, but not much."

Nat nodded. "It feels okay." She rubbed her forehead wearily  
between the eyebrows . Her brain felt foggy. Too much had  
happened at once. It was hard to think. "I better check." She  
stood again, this time accepting Nick's hand to rise. She felt  
wobbly and nauseous. Morning sickness. Well, that was a good  
sign too, she thought stoically. The motion abruptly made her  
feel much worse. She barely made it to the bathroom.

It was some time before she left it again, pale, red-eyed  
and shaky. Nick rose as she entered the kitchen. "Are you okay,  
Nat? Is that normal?"

Nat nodded. She took a saltine out of the box on the counter  
& sat down at the table to nibble it. The sooner she got  
something into her stomach, the better. "It's well within the  
normal range. Worse than usual this morning." She made to rise  
again and Nick waved her down.

"Let me get it - what do you want?"

"Water. With a little apple juice. Thanks." She subsided  
thankfully as Nick mixed the glass and handed it over. The  
first sip was ambrosia. Certainly better than the way her mouth  
tasted before she drank. She cautiously sipped a little more.  
Her stomach seemed to have settled down. She relaxed in the  
chair and closed her eyes.

"How are you doing?" Nick asked.

"Otherwise? I think it's okay." She brought the glass to her  
lips and sipped again. The foul taste was almost gone. Bliss.  
"There's a little fresh blood though. After work I'll get  
Sanjit to take a look."

"Are you sure it's wise to work today?" Nick's voice was  
hesitant, but Natalie's eyes snapped open indignantly. How dare  
he question her judgment? Did he think he could just step back  
in and take over her life?

"I'm perfectly capable of deciding whether I can work!" she  
snapped.

"What would you tell one of your patients?" His voice was  
quiet, patient, and Nat paused.

"I'd tell them to see me right away," she said. "But Sanjit  
won't be available until tomorrow morning."

"And if you couldn't see a patient in your condition until  
the next day?"

Nat hesitated. "I'd tell them to take it easy," she said  
unwillingly. "But that's different."

"Because it's not you?"

"No, because - " she paused again. She didn't want to think  
about any of this.

"Ignoring the symptom won't make it go away, Nat." Nick's  
voice was gentle. Her shoulders sagged as she recognized the  
truth of his words. She looked at him miserably.

"It's just - " she gestured helplessly. "If I act as if  
everything's normal, then maybe everything will be normal  
again." And maybe Marcus won't be dead, she thought. The image  
from the evening news rose again in her interior vision. The  
body slumped across the burning doorway, the watch she'd given  
Marcus bright on its wrist. Sudden tears rose to her eyes and  
she brushed them away, turning her face from Nick. "Sorry," she  
mumbled. "I'm just tired." She took another sip of juice to  
hide the sudden thickness of her voice.

"Nat." Nick touched her shoulder and she looked up at him.  
His face swam in a veil of tears. "It's okay. You're allowed to  
cry. How could you not?"

She nodded and closed her eyes again, this time against the  
sudden rush of tears. "I don't mean to - " she choked on the  
words and couldn't continue. She breathed deeply, getting  
control, and tried again. "He's such a good man, Nick." She  
stared past him, unseeing, at the kitchen cabinets. "He does so  
much good. How could they - how could anyone ... all he ever  
does is help people!" Nick nodded, watching her with sympathy.  
She set down her juice and leaned her head on her hand and  
began to sob. He sat down in the chair beside her and took her  
other hand between his, holding it as she cried. After a moment  
he hesitantly put an awkward arm around her shaking  
shoulders.

"It's okay, Nat," he murmured. "It's okay."

She shook her head angrily through her tears. "No it's not  
okay! He doesn't deserve this!" After that he sat silently,  
letting her cry uninterrupted. When her sobs tapered off at  
last, he got up and found her a tissue from the box on the  
counter. She accepted it with a wordless nod of thanks and  
wiped her wet face, sniffing unromantically. She looked up at  
him, her eyes puffed and red with weeping.

"Thanks. Sorry to - "

"No need", Nick said again.

"Sorry to subject you to it", Nat insisted. "You just meant  
to go to a movie with an old friend, and suddenly all this - "  
her gesture took in the last eight hours.

"I'm glad I was here to help my old friend, in any way I  
can," Nick said quietly.

"Well, I appreciate it." Nat scrubbed at her eyes again with  
the wadded-up tissue and sat up straighter. Time to figure out  
what to do now, she thought. She began to mentally sort through  
her tasks and options, choosing and discarding alternatives.  
Breaking down a task into a series of steps, and choosing an  
approach, never failed to calm her. Out of the corner of her  
eye she saw a trace of a smile cross Nick's face. "What?" she  
said with annoyance. There was surely nothing amusing about her  
present situation.

"Sorry," Nick said. "I just felt reassured. I've seen that  
look on your face before. Whenever you grasped a problem and  
were working out what to do next. It means you're dealing with  
things."

"What choice have I got?" said Nat. It was a little  
disconcerting to find that after all this time, he still knew  
her as well as he did. "I was just thinking," she went on. "I  
don't need to wait for Sanjit; I can order my own emergency  
ultrasound, and get it done today, if they're not too busy.  
Probably there's nothing wrong, and it will reassure me. It's  
still too early to call Claire - " she checked her watch; it  
was not yet 7 a.m. "I'll see if I can set up the ultrasound  
right away." She rose from the table and set her juice glass on  
the sideboard.

Nick rose with her, glancing out the balcony window. The sky  
was lightening perceptibly in the east. "Is there anything I  
can do?" he asked.

Nat shook her head. "'Thanks, but no. I appreciate your  
staying last night. I'll be fine now."

Nick looked at her uncertainly. "I do need to leave now to  
get to the hotel. But I don't like to leave you alone. Will you  
be ok?"

"Don't worry," said Nat. She knew he was trying to be  
helpful, and tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice.  
How like Nick to assume he was still essential, after a five  
year absence! "I have friends I'll call if I need to," she  
added. "But the best thing for me will be to go in to  
work."

"You won't over-work yourself." Nat inhaled audibly, seeking  
control, and Nick stepped back and raised his hands. "Sorry. Of  
course you won't. I shouldn't worry." He smiled engagingly,  
seeking to defuse her, but something in Nat cracked and blew  
open.

" Damn right you shouldn't. You lost the right to worry  
about me when you left town without a word five years ago. And  
I'm in no condition to deal with your misplaced concern now.  
I'll be fine without your help. I've been fine for five years.  
Thanks for hanging around last night, I appreciate it. But I  
truly, sincerely, do NOT need further help from you now. "

Nick looked at her without speaking for a long moment. "I'm  
sorry," he said at last. "I'll leave then."

Nat opened her mouth to apologize and the words stuck in her  
throat. She could not speak for fury. She was appalled at  
herself. She couldn't remember the last time she had been this  
angry. It was all the worse for being irrational. Nick turned  
to go and she tried again to speak. He was halfway to the door  
before words came. "Nick," she managed. "That was uncalled for.  
I'm sorry."

He turned with his hand on the doorknob. "No, you're not.  
You're furious. I don't blame you. I'll call you this evening  
and see how you're doing. If you don't mind," he added  
courteously.

He waited until she nodded, speechless. With a farewell nod  
in return, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Nat stared at the door. What had come over her? He was only  
trying to help. He had been helpful. Inexplicable tears welled  
to her eyes again and she angrily brushed them away. She had no  
time for this. As she moved to the phone, she caught sight of  
the coffee table. She found her voice and cursed fluently. Nick  
had forgotten his files again.

§§§

It proved impossible to schedule an ultrasound before  
Monday. It was very tempting to stay on call and submerge  
herself in work, her favourite way of dealing with emotional  
crisis for how many years. In the end, however, Natalie  
realised it was too much of a risk, and booked off for the  
day.

She spent her unscheduled free time with Marcus' sister.  
Claire and Marcus had been close, and she was in a state of  
shock. Any mention of Marcus was obviously too painful for her,  
and she could barely get through a sentence on any other  
subject without breaking off in tears. Natalie was forced to  
set her own feelings aside in order to provide Claire with what  
support she could. She sat with her, made her cups of tea, and  
did her best to distract Claire whenever she saw that terrible  
bleak look settling on her friend's face.

Grief shared is halved, she thought as she drove home in the  
early evening; something her grandmother used to say. It was  
true that in caring for Claire she had forgotten her own  
unhappiness. But the effort had left her limp. When she opened  
her apartment door the first thing she saw was a First Nations  
carving of a killer whale hanging on the near wall. It had been  
a gift from Marcus early in their relationship. Suddenly his  
death descended on her like a cold weight. He was gone. She  
could never tell him about his child. She would never speak to  
him again at all. Only two months ago he had been so alive, sad  
to be leaving her, but so enthusiastic about returning to the  
field that she hadn't had the heart to try to talk him into  
staying. There was so much good he wanted to do. He deserved so  
much better than this pointless death.

She hung her coat on the hook by the door and turned on a  
couple of lights as she headed for the couch, and sat down  
heavily. She remembered eating Chinese food on this couch with  
Marcus, letting it grow cold while they had a spirited argument  
about the political role of the medical profession. "We can't  
change the world," she remembered saying. "All we can do is  
heal the sick."

"And you don't think that changes the world?" he'd answered.  
"Didn't you ever want to change the world, Natalie? Even just  
for one person? Didn't you ever believe you could?"

She'd paused for a second before she laughed it off. "In my  
idealistic adolescence, like everyone else, I suppose," she'd  
said. But she knew he'd seen her stricken look. He'd tactfully  
changed the subject and never inquired farther. How like Marcus  
not to pry. What a good man he was. Had been. Tears welled up  
in her eyes again and she blinked them away.

I should eat dinner, she thought, and stood up. She felt too  
miserable to be hungry, and was tempted to fall into bed  
without dinner and try to forget everything in sleep. But the  
doctor in her insisted that she must eat something. She moved  
into the kitchen and microwaved herself a bowl of lentil soup.  
She brought it back to the living room with a glass of apple  
juice and tried to distract herself by watching television  
while she ate. Of course there was nothing on. She had a choice  
of Australian rugby or a bowling tournament on the sports  
channels. Some moronic love story with an implausible happy  
ending on the movie channel. Reruns of Friends, Frasier, and  
the Simpsons. A spectacularly dull Canadian history special on  
CBC. She turned off the television and picked up the Trollope  
novel she'd begun months before. After a few pages she realised  
she couldn't remember a word of what she'd just read. Some  
English vicar with angst. There was no point; she wasn't in the  
mood. She let the book drop to the carpet, and had nearly dozed  
off when the phone rang.

"Nat? I'm sorry, were you asleep?"

"Wha? No, I was just ... Nick? Where are you?"

"On my way to the airport. How are you doing?"

Nat surfaced, blinking groggily. That's right, he'd said  
he'd call. Right after she'd thrown him out of the apartment  
that morning. "Oh God" she said as memory returned. Her earlier  
anger had long since evaporated, and she hastened to make  
amends. "Nick, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I had  
no business speaking that way. You were trying to help, I know.  
I was on edge, but that's no excuse."

"You don't need an excuse, Nat", came Nick's reassuring  
voice. "You had a lot on your mind. And I did walk out without  
a word five years ago. You have every right to be angry."

"But I thought I'd forgiven you."

"Doesn't mean you're not still angry."

"Uh..." Nat was still too sleepy to think clearly. Didn't it  
mean that? "I still had no business speaking to you that  
way."

"I feel lucky that you're willing to speak to me at all,  
Nat."

"That's another question entirely. But if I'm going to speak  
to you, I should be polite."

"Okay, so next time you can throw me out politely." Nick  
seemed amused. "I accept your apology, but it's unnecessary. I  
really did call to see how you're doing. I hope you'll forgive  
me for being a little concerned. You've had a lot to deal with  
all at once."

"I do appreciate your concern, Nick." Though I still don't  
really understand it, she thought. "I'm - " she was going to  
say 'fine', but honesty prevented her. "I'm feeling pretty low,  
to tell the truth. I spent the day with Claire. It helped some,  
but I'm home now and - I just can't believe he's dead. He  
brought a room to life by walking into it. And he made other  
people feel more alive when they were around him. I can't  
believe he's gone."

There was a silence at the other end of the line. "Nick?"  
she asked. Had the phone cut out?

"Sorry", came Nick's voice. "I was just thinking. Nat?  
Forgive me for asking, but - are you sure he's dead?"

Nat stared at the blank television screen. The image of the  
burning clinic was sharp in her mind. "How could I not be? It  
was his clinic. You saw the fire. The, the body. "

"Yes. But are you sure it was him wearing the watch?"

"Who else could it be?"

"Someone he loaned it to. Someone who stole it. Someone he  
sold it to for antibiotics. I don't know. But it wasn't  
necessarily him."

Nat closed her eyes and lay back on the couch. Her head had  
begun to ache again. "Pretty thin grounds for hope, Nick. Why  
hasn't he shown up alive anywhere else then?"

"How do you know he hasn't?"

"They'd have told Claire."

There was another brief silence. "Maybe he can't get to a  
phone."

Nat exhaled. She was beginning to feel irritated. Such faint  
hope hurt even worse than certainty. "And maybe a good fairy  
transported him to Club Med. Come on, Nick."

"I wouldn't suggest this for no reason, Nat. How big is  
Marcus?"

"Don't you think that's a rather personal question?" she  
answered automatically. "Sorry, old joke", she added when he  
didn't respond.. "About your size, maybe a little taller. He  
looks a lot like Sean Connery in Goldfinger." Now he had her  
speaking in the present tense, she noticed. She hoped he had a  
reason.

"Sean Connery? And here I thought you loved him for his  
mind."

"That too. So?"

"Forgive me, Nat, but if you think about the body in the  
doorway, didn't it look quite small to you?

Nat thought back unwillingly. She replayed the scene in her  
mind. Did the watch look a little large for the wrist that wore  
it? "Maybe", she said at last. "I don't know. It was too far  
away. And." She swallowed. "Burning would reduce the body  
mass." She didn't want to imagine what he might have suffered.  
Oh Marcus, she thought. I hope you were already dead.

"But not the size of the skeleton. My memory is pretty  
good," Nick said. It's eidetic, Nat thought; you just don't  
want to say so. "And to me it didn't look like the body of a  
Western man. I'm not even sure it was an adult. If I had to  
guess, I would have said it was the size of a twelve-to-  
fifteen year old boy. "

Nat mulled this over. This was probably a vain hope, but  
what if it wasn't? What should she do? Alternative scenarios  
raced through her head. Was there any point in going to Sierra  
Leone? She dwelt on that option before regretfully rejecting  
it. It would be good to feel as if she was doing something, but  
it would be irresponsible in her present condition. Should she  
talk to Claire, or would it be cruel to raise her hopes without  
more certain information?

"Nat?" Nick's voice broke in on her thoughts. "Are you  
there?"

"Sorry. I was thinking what to do next. I don't think I  
should talk to his sister just yet, but I'm not sure MSF will  
investigate further for me, not on such thin evidence. Or the  
Sierra Leone police, for that matter."

"Assuming there are any," Nick agreed. "Nat?" He sounded  
hesitant. "Would you like me to look into it for you? I still  
have some Interpol connections. And the deBrabant Foundation  
contributes to some MSF projects. I don't mean to intrude, but  
if it would help - "

"Oh, would you?" The words escaped before Natalie recovered  
herself. "You don't need to do anything like that, Nick. I -  
"

"I know I don't need to. I want to. It would please me. "  
Nick's voice was firm and unhesitating.

Nat closed her eyes again. "Now I feel really lousy about  
throwing you out of the apartment this morning."

"Of course. That's why I offered." She could tell he was  
smiling, and smiled unwillingly herself.

"Well, if you could, I would really appreciate it. Hugely.  
Even if - even if it is him, I'd rather know for sure than  
wonder."

"Anyone would. I'll see what I can find out this week while  
I'm in Paris. Do you mind if I phone when I have more  
information?"

"Please do. " Inwardly Natalie was pleased that he'd asked.  
He wasn't making the mistake of assuming she would be pleased  
to hear from him. She liked him the better for the care he was  
taking not to intrude unasked in her life.

There was a rustle at the end of the line, and his muffled  
voice said "okay, thanks". Then he came back on. "Sorry. My  
cab's here, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later this week.  
Take care of yourself, Nat. It's been good to see you."

"You too." He rang off, and Nat replaced the handset in its  
cradle. She felt worn out, her emotions in turmoil. If Marcus  
was alive, where was he? No point thinking about that now. She  
would contact MSF herself in the morning; perhaps by then they  
would have more information. She stood up, rubbing her back,  
and headed for bed. She had an early ultrasound appointment the  
next morning; better to get to sleep early. Of course once she  
was in bed she could not sleep, and lay staring at the ceiling  
for what seemed like hours before she finally dropped off, her  
thoughts circling endlessly, returning always to the same  
image. The burning clinic, the body in the doorway. Was it too  
small? Was it Marcus? Her last thoughts as she dropped off were  
a sleepy half-prayer. Marcus, wherever you are, I hope you're  
okay.

§§§

  


### Sierra Leone

He came to with a splitting headache. The weak light from  
the window sent a jagged lance of pain through his skull, and  
he turned his head away, groaning with the motion. A quiet  
voice beside him said "here, Marcus", and guided his hand to a  
bucket beside him. Suddenly he realised he needed it. He sat up  
on one elbow and retched violently into the bucket until there  
was nothing more to bring up. When he lay down again a hand  
patted his lips with a damp cloth. "Wipe out your mouth", the  
voice said. "I used drinking water to wet it."

Marcus nodded feebly in thanks and did as he was told.  
"Where am I?" he asked when he finished.

"My best guess?" said the voice. It was a pleasant woman's  
voice with a faint Dutch accent. He knew he recognized it, knew  
it well, but the name evaded him. "We're in a rebel camp about  
thirty miles from Magburaka. South, I think."

Marcus struggled to focus on the words. It kept his mind off  
his head and his roiling stomach. "Near Yele then."

"I guess. Though we went over some pretty rough roads to get  
here. I think we were avoiding the towns. There were a lot of  
turns."

"So we could be anywhere really."

"Anywhere within a two-hour rough ride from Magburaka."

Marcus fell silent. The pain in his head was beginning to  
localize; waves of pain radiated from the back of his skull. He  
felt it gingerly and found a tender, egg-shaped swelling. It  
was covered with a pad of cloth held in place with another  
strip knotted around his forehead. The pad felt faintly sticky.  
Blood, probably. "I hit my head?"

"Your head was hit. By the driver of the pickup that brought  
us here, I think."

The voice was tantalizingly familiar. "Anneliese," he said  
suddenly. The sound of an explosion, flames shooting into the  
sky, came back to him. "You weren't in the clinic. You're  
safe."

"Well, I'm alive," she said. "The clinic's a writeoff."

"What about Edgar? The supplies?"

"I think Edgar got away in the confusion. Last I saw he was  
running through the scrap yard, and I didn't see anyone chasing  
him. The supplies are gone. Everything went up. We had just  
finished unloading and storing the shipment in the back."

"Damn! That's an unforgivable waste." Marcus felt genuinely  
angry. "Couldn't they have at least stolen it? Someone would  
have got some use from it."

"I think we've got more immediate problems, Marcus."  
Anneliese' words restored Marcus to a sense of his  
surroundings. He opened his eyes again, squinting against the  
light.

He was lying on the dirt floor of a low, plastic-roofed  
shed. From the signs, it had until recently been used to  
shelter livestock. A bucket of water, encrusted with mud and  
vegetable matter, stood in one corner. A small smudged window  
at the back of the shed let in the early morning light. "How  
long have I been out?" Marcus asked.

"About twelve hours," she replied. "You've been asleep, not  
unconscious, judging by your breathing. You're mildly  
concussed, and you have a few bruises from being thrown into  
the back of the truck. You'll be fine in a few days." She  
looked around her. "Depending on what they have planned, of  
course."

Marcus grunted acknowledgement. He looked around. A burlap  
sack hung over the entrance. He nodded to it. "Guarded?"

"There's been someone standing out there most of the night."  
She shrugged. "I couldn't really leave you here to go explore  
in any case."

Marcus felt an enervating lassitude creeping over him as  
they spoke. Somehow it was too hard to think. He yawned. "Any  
idea why we're here?" He wondered if there was a blanket  
somewhere.

"I think we're hostages", said Anneliese. She appeared above  
him, holding a stained, odoriferous, moth-eaten saddle-blanket.  
"Do you want this over you?"

"You are a true friend." He smiled gratefully as she covered  
him.

"Get some sleep. We'll figure out our next move once you've  
recovered."

Marcus nodded sleepily. "Thanks. For everything." He was  
asleep before he could hear her answer, if there was one.

§§§

When he next woke he could tell from the slant of light  
through the window that it was evening. The atmosphere in the  
shed was suffocating. The heat, the humidity, the lack of  
ventilation, the - "Dear Lord. What is that smell?" he  
asked.

He turned his head, wincing, to find Anneliese. She was  
sitting, slumped and colourless, on a low wooden bench near the  
door, the only furniture in the shed. There were dark circles  
under her eyes. A ghost of a smile touched her lips at his  
words, and she turned towards him. "Incontinent goats", she  
said. "I've had the day to analyse it. How do you feel?"

"Better than you look. What happened to your shirt?" he  
added, noticing that it was missing a sleeve.

She glanced at her arm. "It's tied around your head."

Marcus felt the band around his skull. It was still tight,  
and the formerly sticky pad over the bump on his skull had  
become rigid. At least he was no longer bleeding. The bump  
seemed to have shrunk a bit, too. "Thanks. You do look like  
hell though. Have you had any sleep?" he asked.

"Not much. I'm amazed you slept through the noise outside. I  
think something went wrong. There've been trucks coming in and  
out all day, and a lot of shouting and general commotion."

"Any idea what about?"

She shook her head. "How's your Krio?" she asked. "You might  
be able to make out more."

">Roll up your sleeve.< > How long has your son had  
this cough?< > Take this three times a day for three  
days<," Marcus said in Krio.

Her smile broadened. "Your accent is atrocious. Even worse  
than mine", she said. "You'd be better off speaking  
English."

"Generally I do," he admitted. "If they don't understand,  
there's usually someone around to interpret."

"Let's hope that works here." She looked at the curtain over  
the entrance. "I keep hoping they'll bring us food. They may  
have forgotten us. Can you sit up?"

Marcus succeeded on the second try, though he felt woozy and  
weak. He put one hand to his head. "Is there any water?"  
Anneliese handed him her canteen. "I think they mean us to  
drink the water in the bucket, but I don't trust it." He nodded  
and sipped slowly from the canteen. He gave it back about half  
full, feeling considerably better. "I was knocked over the head  
and dumped into a truck?" Anneliese nodded. "How did you get  
here?"

"I was in the truck already, tied to the side with a burlap  
sack over my head," she said. "We'd just finished unloading the  
supplies into the clinic when two truckloads of teenagers  
pulled up. They were all carrying guns. They grabbed me and  
Edgar and took our valuables. One of the kids put on Edgar's  
watch and my crucifix. I think he was the one in charge. They  
brought some explosives into the clinic and started to wire  
them up. They took us outside. Then the clinic blew up. They  
looked scared. I don't think they meant it to happen then.  
Edgar made a break for it then and I think he got away. I  
wanted to try too but the guard kept his gun on me and I  
decided not to. There was a lot of running around and shouting.  
I could hear police sirens, and I guess they decided to avoid  
them. The guard tied me up in the back of the truck and put the  
bag on me, and we took off. A little bit up the road we stopped  
for a few minutes, and I heard someone else being thrown in  
beside me. Then we came here. It turned out to be you."

"Where's the guy in charge?"

"I think he was in the clinic when it went up."

"No wonder they were scared. They must have had no idea what  
to do." Marcus' headache had subsided to a dull throb, but  
thinking was still an effort. "I wonder what they want with  
us."

"I wonder if they know themselves."

"Maybe it's time we drew some attention to ourselves", said  
Marcus.

"Okay, let's draw straws for who sticks their head out the  
curtain and asks for dinner", Anneliese said. "I'm  
starving."

"And if they don't just shoot us, maybe they'll tell us why  
we're here." Marcus unfolded himself shakily from the ground  
and stood up, stooping under the low roof of the shed. "Might  
as well be me, I've got a head injury already."

He pushed the curtain aside and looked out before she could  
respond. A boy no more than twelve years old was sitting beside  
the entrance, rifle propped up on the wall behind him. He  
looked up at Marcus in surprise and scrambled to rise, grabbing  
for his rifle with one hand while he waved at Marcus with the  
other, shouting "Back inside! You go back inside!"

Marcus barely looked at him. Before the shed was a scene of  
carnage and devastation. Small groups of youths toiled up the  
road towards the main camp, most of them visibly injured, or  
assisting someone else of their number who was too badly hurt  
to walk. At intervals along the road lay several collapsed  
forms of youths who had come to the end of their strength.  
Moving slowly up the road behind these, hampered by the foot  
traffic, was a pickup truck carrying more wounded; in the  
distance Marcus could see two or three more of these. He turned  
to the guard, who was now bringing his rifle up to train on  
Marcus, and said "have you got a doctor?"

The boy frowned at him. Marcus jerked his head towards the  
stream of wounded. "Because you need one. Let us help."

The guard looked at him without expression for so long  
Marcus feared he had pushed too far. Then he jerked his head at  
an uninjured youth on the road, who came over to join them.  
There was a brief, heated conversation in Krio, both youths  
glancing at Marcus as they spoke. The guard handed over the  
rifle to the newcomer, and turned to Marcus. "I will ask." He  
nodded up the road to the main camp. Marcus raised one foot to  
step towards him, and the newcomer immediately raised the rifle  
towards him. Marcus stood stock still, and slowly replaced his  
foot where it had been. "You stay here", the guard added  
unnecessarily.

Marcus nodded and held up his hands in submission. He  
stooped slowly under the entrance and backed into the shed.  
Outside he could hear their former guard beginning to run up  
the road.

Inside Anneliese was looking at him, baffled. "What did you  
just offer? These children are killers, Marcus."

"Exactly. And the moment they decide we're no use to them,  
they'll kill us. I think it would be wise to show how useful we  
can be. They look like they've just lost a big one. I think  
they'll take any help they can get." He sat back down wearily  
on his folded blanket. After even a short absence, the heat and  
the smell hit him like a physical blow. "If nothing else, it  
will get us out of this shed."

"And maybe they'll feed the help."

"If they've got any food." Marcus rubbed his face. "I'm  
going to lie down again until the guard gets back. Unless you'd  
rather use the blanket."

"It's no real improvement over the dirt. I'll stretch out on  
the bench." She did so, adding "unless you want to try to  
escape?"

Marcus shook his head. He was bone-tired and still felt  
sick. "I'm not up to it. And it's too light out there, too many  
people. I don't think this is our moment."

After a moment she shrugged agreement. "Let's keep our eyes  
open, though."

"Agreed."

Marcus began to feel himself floating, the precursor to  
sleep. He had nearly dozed off when Anneliese said "damn, I  
forgot." He opened his eyes and looked over blearily. She was  
feeling through the pockets of her trousers. "I had a - here it  
is." She pulled out a battered envelope. "This came for you to  
the Freetown office. "

Marcus checked the return address as he took it, and began  
to smile. "It's from Natalie. In Vancouver. I told you about  
her." He crossed to the window as he opened the letter, and  
held it up to the fading light, scanning the lines rapidly, and  
then reading through it again more slowly. The effort hurt his  
eyes, and when he had finished he closed them and sat down on  
the floor under the window, rubbing the spot between his  
eyebrows as he thought over what he'd just read.

"She's okay?" Anneliese asked, noting his silence.

"She's fine." Marcus folded the letter neatly and replaced  
it in its envelope. "She's - " he inspected the postmark - "oh,  
I guess about eight or nine weeks pregnant by now."

"I take it this is unexpected?" Anneliese said after a  
pause.

Marcus nodded. He leaned his head against the wall of the  
shed and exhaled. "Yes." He thought back to his time in  
Vancouver. It seemed not just eight weeks, but a whole world,  
another life away. Natalie was wonderful; everything he could  
ask for in a woman. It had felt like a holiday from his real  
life to be with her; every day a new and unexpected pleasure.  
But for all that, a holiday. Something to remember fondly when  
it's over. He realised for the first time that perhaps he had  
never seriously considered staying there. And now she was  
pregnant.

"What are you thinking?"

Marcus looked over at Anneliese. "It's a lot to take in.  
She's offered to marry me. She thinks it would be best for the  
child." He paused. "She's right, of course."

Anneliese nodded. "A child needs a father."

"She's willing to have me spend six months in the field, six  
months in Vancouver, if that's what I want," Marcus  
continued.

"That could work."

Marcus looked at the envelope, still in his hand. "It  
could."

"Do you want to marry her?" Anneliese had always had a gift  
for getting straight to the point. Which was, she claimed, how  
she and her husband Willem had come to be married only six  
weeks after they met. 'Why waste time once you know what you  
want?' she'd said. She couldn't imagine not knowing what you  
want, Marcus thought. She wouldn't understand his confusion  
now.

"Natalie is a wonderful woman. Amazing," he said slowly. He  
looked past Anneliese in the gathering darkness. "I'd be very  
lucky to marry her." He drew a long breath. "It's a lot to  
think about."

"Well, you'll have time to think while we figure out how to  
get out of here", said Anneliese. Neither spoke of the obvious.  
It was pleasant to think of a future in which Marcus might  
marry Natalie. Much more pleasant than contemplating the ugly  
probability that they had no future at all.

§§§

It was past full dark when noises outside the entrance  
announced the reappearance of their guard. Both Marcus and  
Anneliese had dozed off, Marcus stretched out on the blanket,  
Anneliese curled on her side on the bench. The sounds of a  
brief argument outside awakened them, and both were sitting up,  
blinking groggily, when the barrel of an Uzi pushed aside the  
burlap curtain covering the entrance. It was followed by a  
flashlight, which shone first in Marcus', then Anneliese' eyes,  
dazzling them in the darkness. "Get up! Come!" said the guard,  
as they struggled to their feet blinking, and motioned them  
outside with a jerk of the gun.

It had cooled off since nightfall, and the air was almost  
pleasant. Once they were outside the guard snapped off the  
flashlight. The moon was full, and the landscape brilliant with  
light. The potholes in the road were lunar craters of deep  
ink-black shadow. The guard motioned silently with the gun that  
they should precede him on the road.

"Where are we going?" asked Anneliese as they set out. The  
guard hit her across the back with the barrel of the gun. She  
staggered and gasped, more with surprise than pain. Marcus  
caught her and set her upright.

"No talking," said the guard. They passed the rest of the  
journey in silence.

The base of operations seemed to be an old clapboard  
farmhouse set in the middle of a broad open field. The upper  
windows were boarded up. Armed youths sat or lounged and  
smoked, slumping with fatigue or perhaps just the heat, on the  
sagging verandah before the front door. Conversation was  
subdued. Those on the verandah seemed for the most part  
uninjured, and Marcus wondered where the parade of wounded  
youths he had seen on the road that morning had gone.

His question was answered as they rounded the house and  
approached the back entrance. In the field behind the house an  
entire shanty-town had sprung up, of tents, lean-tos, roofed  
plastic sheds, anything that would protect the inhabitants from  
the sun. There were few lights in evidence, and an attempt  
seemed to have been made to camouflage most of the rooves with  
some kind of vegetation. There were more than a dozen shelters;  
Marcus estimated the population at perhaps 150, not counting  
however many might be living in the house. A faint but  
pervasive odor of human waste wafted towards them from the  
makeshift camp, and the sounds of people moaning in pain or  
illness. Inwardly Marcus shuddered to think of the hygiene  
problems they faced, before they even began.

The guard motioned towards the farmhouse door with the gun.  
"Inside," he said. The two doctors made their way up the back  
steps and entered what proved to be a kitchen door. They  
stepped through into the light of a kerosene lantern, set on a  
kitchen table in the center of the room. A man in his twenties  
sat at the table, bracketed by two armed adolescents, who swung  
towards them as they entered, guns at the ready. The older man  
raised his hand and they lowered their weapons, but remained  
alert and focussed on the intruders. Their escort nodded to the  
older man and stepped back out into the yard. His voice was  
just audible beginning a low conversation with someone outside.  
Marcus noted all this with difficulty. As they came through the  
door the smell of hot groundnut stew, bubbling in a large pot  
on the charcoal-burning stove to one side of the kitchen, had  
drawn his immediate attention. He had not eaten in more than a  
day. It was difficult to think about anything else. He could  
not resist looking at the stewpot, and swung his head back only  
when he heard the older man's voice, speaking Krio. He replayed  
the man's words in memory.

>How good is your Krio?< he had asked.

>Not good. Only for clinic work< answered Marcus. The  
leader looked at Anneliese, who returned his gaze blankly. The  
man at the table frowned at her, and Marcus added >I can  
say, please may we have some stew. We have not eaten since  
yesterday<. He waited uneasily for a response, hoping the  
distraction had worked. In fact Anneliese understood Krio quite  
well, much better than she spoke it. Perhaps it would be useful  
if that fact were not discovered.

In the flickering shadows cast by the lantern Marcus was not  
sure he saw a trace of a smile on the leader's lips, vanishing  
as soon as it came. >Get them some stew<, he said, and  
one of the guards set down his gun and got out two chipped and  
mismatched crockery bowls from the cupboard beside the stove.  
Marcus' eyes remained on the older man, but his real attention  
veered constantly to the food preparations the guard made, as  
with what seemed tortuous slowness he found a ladle, poured  
portions of stew into the two bowls, rummaged in a drawer for  
spoons, and carried the bowls and spoons over to the table  
before them, where he set them down. Marcus and Anneliese did  
not move until the leader inclined his head toward the bowls.  
>Please eat< he said. Marcus picked up the bowl and  
spooned the watery contents into his mouth. It was  
ambrosial.

>Thank you< he said after the first spoonful. >You  
are very kind.<

"You can't work if you're starving", said the man at the  
table, in English. "I will speak English to make sure you  
understand," he said to their surprised looks. "Finish your  
stew; then we will talk." When their bowls were empty, the work  
of a few moments, he continued.

"I am Commander Clarence Perkins of the Revolutionary United  
Front. You are Dr. Marcus Mackenzie?" Marcus nodded. "And you  
are - "

"Dr. Anneliese Eckhardt", supplied Anneliese.

Perkins nodded. "Also a doctor. That's good. I knew only  
that you had driven the supply truck." He turned his attention  
back to Marcus. "We bombed your clinic yesterday. That act  
shows the world our determination in the struggle against our  
oppressors."

"But we're not your oppressors", interjected Anneliese.  
Marcus stepped quietly but firmly on her foot and she fell  
silent.

The commander nodded without apparently taking offense. "Not  
you personally. But your work in the clinic aided them, by  
pacifying the population. And you are Europeans. Your captivity  
will gain international publicity."

"Are we hostages?" Anneliese spoke again, ignoring Marcus'  
pressure on her foot.

Perkins nodded again. "A list of our demands has been sent  
to the government and the newspapers. You will be held until  
the R.U.F. has been recognized as the legitimate government of  
Sierra Leone." In other words, we'll be here until we die,  
thought Marcus. But Perkins went on.

"In the meantime, I understand you have volunteered your  
services as doctors. We have a number of wounded. In addition,  
many soldiers have fallen ill. You will cure them."

"What medical supplies have you got?" asked Marcus.

"Very few. We intended to take supplies from your clinic,  
but some of the troops were unfamiliar with explosives."  
Perkins paused. "We have some sheets. You may use them for  
bandages."

"That's all? We'll need - " Marcus thought quickly about the  
injuries he'd seen earlier in the day - "surgical needles and  
thread, scalpels, disinfectant, a way of sterilizing the  
instruments, anaesthetics, a clean place to work ..." he  
trailed off before Perkins' unblinking dark eyes.

"We will get you what we can, doctor. For the rest, you will  
have to make do." He waited until Marcus nodded.

"When do we start?"

"Now, doctor." He turned to the guards behind him. "Cooper.  
Show the doctors to the wounded. Stay with them. Maddox,  
collect what medical supplies we have and put them in the front  
room." He turned back to the doctors. "You may use the front  
room as a clinic. I will have lanterns placed there. Tell  
Cooper what you need, and we will see if we can get it for  
you."

He turned away, and the audience was over. Marcus saw as he  
turned that what he had misinterpreted as a smile was a twisted  
lip, raised in a permanent half-sneer by a puckered scar that  
ran from one corner of his mouth across the bridge of his nose.  
One of the guards, presumably Cooper, came forward and motioned  
them out the door. In a moment they were walking across the  
field to the first of the lean-tos.

The smell of human waste grew stronger as they neared the  
shelters. "Where are the latrines, Cooper?" asked Anneliese  
suddenly, and the guard pointed to an outbuilding some distance  
away, around the corner of the house. "But the sick do not go  
there", he said. "It is too far away."

"Then where - " Marcus started.

"In their beds, or on the ground," Cooper said simply. He  
brought them to the first lean-to; a shed formed of corrugated  
plastic sheeting on three sides, propped up on the open side  
with a length of metal rail, bent to support the roof. Inside  
the stench was so intense Marcus nearly staggered. Cooper  
flicked on his flashlight and passed the cone of light over the  
faces of the inhabitants. They lay on makeshift cots, old  
mattresses, and pieces of matting, so close together there was  
barely room to move between them. None had any immediately  
visible wounds. As the light passed over one he turned his head  
to the side and vomited weakly on the ground between his mat  
and the next patient, who seemed oblivious. Marcus stared,  
appalled, and held out his hand to Cooper. "I need the  
flashlight."

He entered the lean-to, and crouched beside the first cot,  
holding the light over the patients' face, a young girl whose  
hair, clothing, and sheets were caked with vomit. She did not  
respond to the light except to moan faintly and turn her head  
slightly away. Marcus examined her carefully, looking at her  
eyes, pinching a fold of her skin and watching, troubled, while  
it sank slowly back into her arm, touching her forehead to  
assess her temperature, and delicately inserting a finger to  
feel the inside of her lip and cheek. Finally he stood up, and  
shone the flashlight slowly around the other patients in the  
shed. Some were twitching restlessly; others lay still. In the  
light of the flashlight their eyes were dark and sunken. Marcus  
turned and came back to the others.

"How many more shelters like this one?" he asked. "Sick  
people, not wounded?"

Cooper pointed to three more shelters. "We began to get sick  
three days ago", he offered. "At first only a few, then more  
and more. Now almost fifty."

"Cholera?" asked Anneliese in a quiet voice. Marcus  
nodded.

"Severe dehydration, at least. Her eyes are sunken; high  
fever but no sweat, skin elasticity is low, dry mouth. The  
others look no better. And when there are this many, cholera  
seems a reasonable guess. The water supply must be  
contaminated."

Anneliese looked around her at the reeking field in which  
they stood. "Very likely." She turned to Cooper. "Where do you  
get your drinking water?"

"In the house. Or at the pump." He nodded to an old iron  
pump on one side of the field.

"You must stop drinking from both immediately, until the  
water has been tested. All drinking water must be boiled. Can  
you tell Commander Perkins that?"

Cooper looked troubled, and Marcus was struck, once again,  
with how young he was; with how young all these child soldiers  
were. He was barely old enough to begin to grow a beard. "Would  
you rather one of us told him?" he asked, and the guard nodded.  
Whether his fear was of his commander, or of the  
responsibility, he was clearly relieved.

"Let's look at the rest of this mess and get together a list  
of what we need before we go back to Perkins," Marcus muttered  
to Anneliese, and they set out for the other shelters, Cooper  
in tow.

    There were, as Cooper had said, three other  
shelters full of cholera sufferers in various stages of  
dehydration, some actively vomiting and moaning in the grip of  
constant diarrhea, some lying deceptively peaceful, and closer  
to death, who had already lost so much fluid that they had  
little left to give up. The other eight shelters held the  
wounded. These were paradoxically in better shape, possibly, as  
Anneliese remarked, because any who had managed the trek back  
to camp had not been too badly hurt to begin with. But some of  
the wounded were also showing the initial signs of cholera,  
clutching their stomachs, groaning, and retching. When the  
doctors had completed their tour they stood on the upwind side  
of the camp and compared notes.

"When was the last time you did field surgery?" asked  
Anneliese.

"Not for a few years. I've been concentrating in public  
health."

"Then if you don't mind, I think I should start dealing with  
the wounded. I've run three field hospitals in the last couple  
of years." Marcus nodded, and she turned to Cooper. "Cooper, I  
need disinfectant, bandages, surgical implements, anaesthetic  
if they've got any, and a couple of healthy soldiers to help  
get the wounded into the house where I can take a look at them.  
A good light, if you can. Lots of boiled water. Can you do  
that?"

Cooper nodded. This was obviously the errand he had expected  
to run. He waved to one of the other young men lounging by the  
fence along the edge of the field, who ran up and after a brief  
conversation, took Cooper' gun and replaced him as their  
escort.

"I think Perkins cares more about the wounded than the  
sick," said Marcus quietly. "Cooper isn't afraid to ask for  
supplies to help them."

"The wounded are the least of his problems," said Anneliese.  
"Perhaps you'd better go impress that on him. I'll take our  
escort and triage the wounded. Anyone who's still bleeding goes  
first."

Marcus set off across the field towards the house, only to  
be stopped by a shout from their new guard, who motioned him  
angrily back towards Anneliese. Marcus made exaggerated hand  
gestures to show his intentions. I'm going to the house. I will  
come back here. >I must speak to Perkins< he added in  
Krio. >I will return. The other doctor will see the wounded  
now.< At last the guard nodded and waved him away to the  
house, but stood with his rifle ready, watching Marcus until he  
had gone up the steps.

Inside the commander was still sitting at the table, going  
over a list of some sort. He stopped and raised his eyes to  
Marcus when he entered.

"You have cholera in the camp," said Marcus without  
preliminaries. "All drinking water must be boiled. Everyone  
must be warned, or many will die."

Perkins responded to his urgency without argument. "What  
else must we do?"

"Cook all food and eat it hot. Wash your hands in clean  
water, after using the latrine or touching an infected person,  
and before handling food. If everyone does those three things,  
the disease will not infect more people. Though many have  
already been infected, and will fall ill in the next week or  
so."

"And what of those, and the ones already ill? Will they  
die?"

"If I can have help with nursing, we can save most of them,  
I think. We need to act quickly."

Perkins nodded. He called over his shoulder into the other  
room, where Cooper and Maddox were setting up lights and tables  
for Anneliese' surgery. "Cooper, go and round up five - " he  
looked at Marcus, who nodded - " five men to assist the doctor  
with the ill." He looked back to Marcus. "What do you  
need?"

"Clean water, first. Do you have any chlorine bleach?"  
Perkins inclined his head to the sink, and Marcus crossed the  
room and rooted in the cupboard underneath until he located an  
ancient bottle of Javex. He frowned. "This may be a little old.  
We can use it, but I'd like to boil some water too." Perkins  
pointed to the cupboard by the stove, where Marcus found two  
ten-gallon pots. "Excellent. I'll use bleach in one, and boil  
the other." Cooper returned with two youths, and Marcus set  
them to filling the pots and heating or bleaching the water.  
That done, he rolled his head to release the tension from his  
neck. His head still ached. How long it seemed since  
yesterday.

"Do you have sugar and salt?"

"We haven't many supplies, doctor, but those we can give  
you." Perkins motioned to the cupboard above the sink, where  
Marcus found large bags of both. "We have more if that is not  
sufficient."

"It'll do for now." Marcus was already pouring sugar into  
the pot on the stove, explaining what was needed to one of the  
assistants Cooper had recruited. A double cupped-handful of  
sugar and two pinches of salt per gallon; twenty double  
handfuls, 20 pinches, per pot. Boil the water for three  
minutes. Let the bleached water sit for half an hour before  
using it. Perkins assisted with brief translations when there  
seemed to be confusion. When the water was nearly ready, Marcus  
rinsed a jug with the bleached water, and paused to drink a  
cupful himself, then another. He would be no use dehydrated.  
"We will need more jugs. Do you have any paper cups?" he  
asked.

"Today is your lucky day, doctor. Maddox, go and find the  
cups we retrieved last week from Yele." As Maddox departed, he  
asked Marcus, "what are you going to do?"

Marcus closed his eyes, feeling weary in advance, when he  
contemplated the work ahead of him. "Cholera kills by leaching  
the body of its fluids. If we can keep replacing those fluids  
during the acute phase of the disease, and afterwards, using  
water with sugar and a little salt, most patients will survive.  
But it requires constant nursing through the acute phase, to  
keep giving them fluids as they lose them." He paused, and  
looked at Perkins directly. "Some of the sick are already too  
far gone. In a hospital I'd give them intravenous fluids. Here  
\- " he turned his palms up helplessly - "with our best efforts,  
we will not save them all. I'm sorry."

Perkins looked at him unreadably. "Do your best, doctor. I  
take it the woman will be handling the wounded?"

Marcus nodded. "She has more experience there. They are in  
good hands."

Maddox returned, sliding a large case of paper cups along  
the floor in front of him. "Excellent," Marcus said. "Now, if  
you would gather the assistants together, I will explain what  
they need to do."

With Perkins' help, the procedure involved in keeping the  
patient hydrated during the height of the cholera attack was  
explained; pour water into them, and when they vomited, wait a  
few minutes, and give them some more; keep it up through the  
twenty-four hours of the attack, and after, until they were  
well enough to drink for themselves. The youngest assistant, no  
more than a boy, was left in the kitchen, to keep replenishing  
the supply of rehydration solution. The others, with Marcus,  
departed for the shelters, each armed with a jug of solution  
and a stack of paper cups.

§§§

The next days passed in a blur, punctuated in Marcus' later  
memory by random isolated events in sharp focus. Gently pouring  
rehydrating solution into a young boy's mouth at 3 a.m. one  
night. Watching him vomit it up. Wiping his face, and pouring  
in some more. Realizing that he had been repeating this action,  
with patient after patient, for so long he could not remember  
when he started, or imagine a time when he would stop.  
Directing the construction of one new lean-to, and then  
another, out of corrugated plastic, as more cholera victims,  
and yet more, entered the camp. Helping carry wounded to  
Anneliese' surgery. Pausing for a drink of rehydrating solution  
himself, standing on the kitchen steps in the heat of the  
afternoon. Anneliese touching him on the shoulder late one  
night, herself haggard with exhaustion, saying "I've done what  
I can with the wounded. Why don't I spell you on the cholera  
cases. Go lie down." Trying to stand from his crouching  
position by a young man's mat, and finding that his legs had  
seized; he couldn't rise without her assistance. Taking the  
handle off the field pump, to prevent anyone from using it for  
drinking water. The endlessly boiling vats of water on the  
stove, and the youths painstakingly adding sugar and salt, and  
carrying it out to the shelters for the nurses to use. Looking  
into the eyes of a soldier with the scars of a veteran of many  
combats, his eyes sunken in his skull, desperately dehydrated,  
and suddenly realising as he helped the soldier drink that  
under the scars he was no more than eleven years of age.  
Catching Anneliese as she staggered and nearly fell with  
fatigue, and persuading her to sit down by the back door and  
eat something while he continued in her place. The neverending,  
hopeless attempt to keep the sick clean, even to change the  
matting as one left a shelter and the space was taken up by  
another body, to at least wipe down the area and remove the  
worst of the filth. And on, and on.

Twelve days after the clinic had been bombed, he sat in the  
cool of the evening on the back steps, eating some boiled rice,  
and realised that he had had five minutes to himself without  
interruption. The worst was over. There had been only five new  
cases today, and they were all doing well. He scratched his  
forehead, remembering vaguely that he'd taken the makeshift  
bandage off his head and given the cloth to Anneliese to use as  
a splint some days before. He rolled his neck and stretched out  
his shoulders. Abruptly he realised how bone-tired, truly  
exhausted, he was. Every muscle ached. He wanted nothing more  
than to fall asleep. He looked around for a guard. The  
mandatory escort on the two of them had been tacitly removed  
days ago, as all able- bodied troops were pressed into service  
as nurses. Still, he thought it politic to keep Perkins  
informed of his movements. He stood up and located Maddox,  
inside the kitchen door. "Maddox? I'm going to catch a quick  
nap in the side room, if anyone needs me." The young man looked  
up from brewing what Marcus hoped would be the last, or perhaps  
one of the last five, pots of rehydrating solution, and  
waved.

"You go get some rest, doctor. We'll call you if anything  
comes up."

Marcus walked through the kitchen and the hallway down to  
the side room where he and Anneliese had slept in exhausted,  
short snatches during the worst of the crisis. He found  
Anneliese already dozing on one of the two battered couches  
which, along with a broken-backed chair and a three-legged  
table leaning against one wall, were the room's sole furniture.  
He lay down on the other couch and closed his eyes. Anneliese  
spoke to him without moving or opening her own. "You know, I  
think we actually did it. We stopped an epidemic."

He grunted. "And patched up a flock of wounded too."

"Damn we're good." He could hear her yawning. "How many, did  
you keep track?"

"183 the day before yesterday. I'm not sure after that.  
Around two hundred?"

"That sounds about right." She sighed. "But five died."

"I know." Their faces were vivid in his memory. They were so  
young, all of them. Looking up to him in fear, in hope. The  
foreign doctor who would save them. Only he hadn't. He shook  
his head. "If only we'd had hospital resources. Even a single  
IV drip..."

"Might not have made a difference. They were too far gone  
when we got there." Anneliese too was troubled, he could hear  
in her voice. She wanted reassurance.

"They were. We did everything we could."

He could hear the rustle of her head against the upholstery  
as she nodded. "I'm beat", she said drowsily. "Going to try to  
sleep."

Marcus closed his eyes. "Good idea".

When he awoke it was to the smell of goat stew, not long  
after sunset. He raised himself on one elbow and found  
Anneliese setting a bowl on the chair beside him.

"You're up", she said in a low voice. "Eat this. We have to  
talk."

He sat up and took the bowl from her. "What's up?" He began  
to spoon the stew into his mouth.

"I overheard some conversation outside the window while I  
was in the surgery just now. One of the soldiers broke his arm  
climbing the verandah roof", she added to his look. "I heard a  
couple of soldiers, talking among themselves. The window was  
open, and you know they don't realise I understand Krio."  
Marcus nodded, and continued to eat. "Perkins said we're  
hostages. That they've sent ransom demands." He nodded  
again.

"The first night. I remember."

"It's not true. The guards beside the shelter I was working  
in were bringing a new guy up to date. He wanted to know what  
white doctors were doing in the camp.

"Apparently they never intended to take any prisoners at all  
when they bombed the clinic. They were just going to steal the  
supplies, probably kill you. But they had a lot of wounded and  
sick on their hands. When the clinic went up too soon they lost  
the supplies and the leader of the raid too. They didn't know  
what to do. So the second in command decided to grab you, and  
me too just for luck, and came back with us instead. Perkins  
thought we were too dangerous to be useful, and he was just  
going to kill us. But a lot of wounded came in from another  
raid inland, and then you volunteered us to help, and just then  
the cholera cases began to climb. So he figured he'd get what  
use he could out of us."

"So there never was a ransom demand." Marcus had finished  
his stew and set the bowl down on the chair.

Anneliese shook her head. "Nobody on the outside even knows  
we're alive. And now that the epidemic is pretty much over,  
well - " she made a chopping motion with one hand.

"We probably won't be for much longer," Marcus agreed.

She nodded soberly. "Perkins doesn't trust us, why should  
he? And once he has no more use for us ..."

Marcus wiped his hands on his trousers and stood up,  
beginning to pace. "I wonder how much longer we've got."

"I've volunteered us to train the ones who assisted us  
during the epidemic in some basic first aid", said Anneliese.  
"That should buy us a day or two."

"Good." Marcus thought. "It's the new moon tomorrow. I vote  
we eat and sleep as much as we can in the next twenty- four  
hours. And then tomorrow night, we head down the road, and hope  
we find help before Perkins finds us."

"You call that a plan."

"You've got anything better?"

Anneliese shook her head.

"Then let's go do the ward rounds and turn in." They headed  
through the side door and out into the field, where they split  
up by unspoken consent, Anneliese to check on the progress of  
the wounded, Marcus to see to the remaining cholera  
victims.

They met an hour later at the far side of the field both  
relatively pleased. Anneliese's surgery patients were healing  
as well as she could hope for in the circumstances. No new  
cholera patients had appeared in the last six hours, and the  
remaining victims were all on the mend. Whatever else, Marcus  
thought, we've done good work here. Anneliese too was looking  
around the field hospital with satisfaction. "I suppose it  
would be too much to expect a little gratitude", she said.

Marcus shrugged. "It would be nice. But suffering doesn't  
ennoble, you know. You suffer enough and it numbs you. Whatever  
turned these kids into soldiers didn't leave room for  
gratitude."

Anneliese leaned against the fence rail beside him and  
stared at the ground ahead of her. "What an appalling  
thought."

"Maybe some will recover. If circumstances change. If  
foreign nationals stop funding their war. If, if. At least more  
of them will be alive to take a second chance, if one  
comes."

"That's as much hope as you've got?" Anneliese looked at him  
curiously.

He shrugged again. "It's enough." Marcus straightened up and  
shook himself. "Let's go get some rest." She followed him  
across the field to the house.

An unfamiliar soldier carrying an automatic weapon stood  
before the kitchen door. They looked at him curiously. Guns had  
not been much in evidence during the worst of the epidemic, but  
military discipline was beginning to reassert itself. He  
stepped forward as they came towards the steps. He seemed older  
than the majority of the troops, in his twenties perhaps. A  
ranking officer, most likely. "Dr. Mackenzie? Dr. Eckhardt?" he  
asked. "Come with me." He motioned them away from the kitchen  
door and walked with them around the house towards the front.  
With a slight jolt, Marcus realised that they were walking -  
were being escorted - down the road they had come up on the  
first night.

"Where are we going?" he asked. Their guard said nothing,  
even when he repeated the question, and he realised that he was  
not to be answered. They continued on for what seemed a long  
time, their footsteps muffled in the soft dust of the roadbed.  
The moon was a mere sliver in the sky. In the near-total  
darkness he stumbled more than once in a pothole. The second  
time he nearly fell, but the guard caught him by the elbow and  
wordlessly set him upright again.

There was something unearthly, outside time, about the night  
journey down the darkened road, the muffled footfalls of the  
guard falling in cadence behind them, without shadow or any  
other sound to confirm his presence there. The darkness seemed  
to shroud not only vision but sound; it separated them from the  
camp, from the epidemic, from any other human being. The ties  
that bound Marcus to his previous life all seemed severed by  
the blackness into which they walked with an unwavering tread.  
Everyone that mattered to him, his friends, his family,  
Natalie, all seemed to lie, brightly lit but tiny and far away,  
on the other side of an immense dark divide. It was hard to  
believe that he would ever reach them again. The only reality  
was himself, Anneliese, and the guard, travelling on together  
through the night. Suddenly Marcus knew he would remember this  
moment for the rest of his life.

He rubbed his elbow without thinking, where the guard had  
caught it. It would be bruised come morning. He's our  
executioner, Marcus thought abruptly. Perkins brought in an  
outsider to do the job. It's all over. We are being led to our  
deaths. He felt, oddly, peaceful. There was nothing about the  
man behind him that aroused fear.

Beside him he heard a strangled swallowing sound, and looked  
at Anneliese out of the corner of his eye. She too looked  
straight ahead, but he could see starlight dimly reflected from  
the track of a tear, rolling down her cheek as he watched. She  
knew it too. He reached out a hand to her for comfort, and she  
took it. The guard said nothing, and they continued on, hand in  
hand.

They came to a low shed near the road, no more than a dim  
shape in the darkness until they were nearly upon it. The guard  
went ahead of them and pushed aside the burlap curtain over the  
entrance. It was the same shed they had slept in the first  
night, Marcus realised. He's going to kill us here, away from  
the camp, and stow the bodies in the shed, he thought. The  
guard gestured with the gun.

"Go in."

They obeyed him without argument. Was there a moment when he  
could have jumped the guard, grabbed his gun, and made an  
escape? Marcus didn't see one. They entered, Marcus first,  
muscles taut with the expectation of a bullet through the back  
of his skull as he went through the door. He almost didn't hear  
the guard's next words.

"You sleep here tonight."

The guard dropped the curtain back into place after  
Anneliese had entered. They could hear him taking up his  
position in front of it, guarding the door. It was pitch dark  
inside. Marcus groped until he found Anneliese' shoulder. She  
gripped his hand with both of hers and began to weep.

"I thought we were dead."

"I think we are, pretty much", Marcus whispered, jerking his  
head towards the guard, outside the door. "They must be keeping  
us for another day, or until morning at least, just in case  
there's another outbreak."

"Why wouldn't Perkins leave us in the house then?" Anneliese  
whispered in turn.

Marcus had had time to think about this in the walk down the  
road. "Too many people know us there. They saw us working to  
save their lives. Maybe killing us would be an unpopular move.  
This way he can say he just let us go."

He could feel her head move in a nod against his upper arm.  
"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know." Marcus crouched and felt around on the floor  
with one hand. The blanket was still there from two weeks  
before. "I think our best bet is still to get some rest, if we  
can." He sat down on the blanket. "If he'd been told to kill us  
tonight he would already have done it. I think we're safe until  
a runner comes with a message for him. So let's sleep until we  
hear footsteps."

He lay down and after a moment she joined him, curling up  
beside him on the thin mat. "And then?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I pretend I'm James Bond, and you can be Pussy  
Galore? I'll knock the first one through the door over the  
head. You tie up the next one with your silk stockings. We  
retrieve the guns, come out shooting, and jump on the ladder of  
the CIA balloon as it swings by overhead, leaving our foes in  
the dust. "

She rewarded this sally with a watery giggle, and he was  
pleased to have been able to distract her, if only for a  
moment. "You look like him, you know. James Bond."

"So I've been told." He thought of Natalie. He'd hardly had  
time to do so since the beginning of the epidemic. All this and  
you look like Sean Connery too, she'd said. I can't believe my  
luck. In the dark, his mouth curved in a reminiscent smile. But  
he would never see their child, he thought. Natalie would never  
even know he had received her letter.

"What are you thinking about?" whispered Anneliese in the  
darkness.

"Natalie," he whispered back. "I hope she's okay. I wish I  
could do something for her."

"Like staying alive?"

"For a start." He sighed. "She's a resourceful woman. I'm  
sure she'll be fine whatever happens. I always admired her  
strength."

"When we're out of here you can tell her so," Anneliese  
whispered firmly, and he nodded. She was right. It was best to  
maintain a positive outlook. He was doing his best to do so as  
he slid uneasily towards sleep.

He had nearly dozed off when he realised that Anneliese was  
shaking beside him. He struggled out of slumber and realised  
that she was silently sobbing, trying not to disturb him.  
Marcus rolled over with difficulty and put an arm around  
her.

'It's all right, Anneliese," he whispered. "It's all  
right."

She shook her head. "It's not", she whispered fiercely. "I  
promised Willem I'd be careful. He didn't want me to make this  
trip. If we get out of here I'm never coming back. I've had  
enough."

Marcus squeezed her with his free arm. "Whatever you want.  
But rest now." Gradually he felt her breathing slow as she  
dropped off. Soon after, he followed her.

###   
§§§§§§§§§§  



	5. Nick in Paris

§§§

It was pouring rain when Nick's plane landed at Charles de  
Gaulle. The heavily overcast sky allowed him to step out to the  
curb to flag a limo immediately, instead of waiting until the  
last rays of the setting sun had been blotted out by the  
horizon. He settled into the back seat and gave the address of  
the small flat he had bought in St. Denis two years before. It  
was little more than a place to set his bags between trips. It  
might have made more sense to simply stay in a hotel, for the  
little time he was in Paris these days. But it was a comfort to  
see familiar objects around him from time to time, to be able  
to walk through a door and know in advance every object in the  
room.

He leaned back against the headrest and let his eyes rest on  
the traffic streaming past the rain-wet window. Travel was  
certainly not as difficult as it used to be. He had not had to  
spend weeks below decks pretending a mysterious seasickness  
that only struck during daylight hours. He had not had to  
carefully plan his train schedules for evening departure and  
arrival. He had not had to set out across land on a nervous  
horse by night, or fly on his own account, a quick but  
exhausting mode of travel which required frequent stops for  
nourishment.

Still, the six hours he had spent in Heathrow between  
flights had been a strain. It was not as ugly as some airports,  
though there was no such thing as a beautiful or even a  
comfortable one; and at least it had a couple of decent  
bookstores. The overpowering scent of the thronging herds of  
living, breathing, sweating, hearts-pounding humanity  
surrounding him on all sides no longer troubled him as it used  
to. But it was no pleasure.

Mortals never considered the irritations of vampire travel,  
he reflected as he watched streaks of rain luminesce in the  
oncoming headlights. It was impossible to both take off and  
land between sunset and dawn on an eastbound transatlantic  
flight. He had caught an evening flight from Vancouver to  
London, and had landed in Heathrow in the early afternoon. He  
had waited six hours in Heathrow for a connecting flight that  
would land after sunset in Paris  and then it had landed  
early. He didn't want to think about how much time he had spent  
in the last few years, in the last half-century, waiting in  
airports for flights that would land after dark. He didn't want  
to think about the forty-eight-hour storm which had given him  
an intimate acquaintance with the seats in Topeka airport, the  
most uncomfortable in the U.S. He didn't want to think about  
the twenty-seven hours he'd been forced to spend in JFK on  
discovering that his "connecting flight" left from LaGuardia,  
across town through noon traffic, and no way to get there in  
time even if it hadn't been full daylight. He certainly  
didnt want to think about what he'd like to do to the  
designer of O'Hare.

He couldn't reconcile it with his conscience to buy a  
deBrabant Foundation Lear jet simply for his own convenience.  
But every trip he made he re-examined that decision with  
increasing doubt. Perhaps it was finally time to take the  
plunge. That or follow Count Dracula's lead and start shipping  
himself as cargo.

He paid off the driver when they arrived at his building and  
let himself into the flat. The air smelled disturbed and he set  
down his bag and removed his jacket before crossing to the  
refrigerator. A case of cow's blood, the box date-stamped that  
morning, chilled in the main compartment. He investigated  
further. Someone had dusted, the sheets had been aired and  
changed, and the plants recently watered. Today's newspaper sat  
on the small table beside his reading chair. His cleaning had  
been delivered, unpacked, and hung on wooden hangers in the  
bedroom closet. The housekeeping agency had missed nothing, and  
as he uncorked a bottle he made a mental note to send them a  
bonus. He drank a third of the bottle at once as he crossed to  
his reading chair and sat down. It had been a long day, and it  
was good to be home. At least it was better than sitting in  
Heathrow. He leaned his head back against the headrest and  
closed his eyes. Shortly he would begin to think about his  
plans for the next few days. But for the moment, he needed a  
rest. There had been nowhere to sleep at Heathrow. He took  
another drink and set it down on the newspaper beside him.  
Perhaps he would just close his eyes for a minute.

§§§

A breath of air touched his neck around midnight and he was  
instantly awake, and knew he was not alone. He felt the  
presence before he smelled or heard it. He heard the faintest  
rustle from the heavy drapes over the window behind him.  
"Janette", he said, and turned his head.

She stood behind his chair, exquisite as always, pushing the  
hood of her dark grey wool cloak back from her perfect face. He  
rose to face her. "What brings you here?"

She let the hood drop to her shoulders. One slender hand  
opened the neck of her cloak. "I come to greet my master on his  
return, as is my duty." Her limpid blue eyes regarded him in  
transparent sincerity.

Nick raised an incredulous eyebrow and her lips twitched.  
When he began to laugh, she dropped her pose and smiled in  
return. Outside he could hear pattering on the eaves. The rain  
had grown heavier while he slept. Janette removed her damp  
cloak and draped it over the arm of the leather couch.  
Underneath it she was simply and elegantly dressed in a  
cowl-neck silk jersey dress in her favourite deep burgundy. It  
fit her graceful form like the caress of a gentle hand. She sat  
down and leaned back into the cushions of the couch, slipping  
off her shoes and unselfconsciously curling her legs underneath  
her.

"I don't suppose you can offer me a drink", she said. Nick  
gestured to the bottle on the table beside him and she  
shuddered delicately. "I thought not." She looked at him with a  
touch of concern. "Asleep at this hour, Nicola? What ails you?"

"I was travelling. I couldn't sleep all day." In deference  
to his guest, Nick walked across the room to the sideboard to  
find a glass. Janette had always hated him to drink straight  
out of the bottle. He held up a second glass to her as he  
straightened up. "You're sure?"

"Non, merci." She waved it away decisively. "I do not see  
why you insist on drinking that swill, Nicola. You no longer  
need to kill to drink something palatable, after all."

"Call it a personal eccentricity." Nick poured himself a  
glass and set the bottle down on the mantelpiece. He returned  
to the chair across from her and sat down. "Really, why are you  
here?" he asked, smiling as his eyes took her in. It was a  
pleasure to see her. Not just a pleasure to have her there, but  
a simple pleasure to look at her, perfectly dressed as always,  
utterly at her ease and curled like a favourite cat on the most  
comfortable piece of furniture in the apartment. She had an  
unerring eye for the best, and no self-doubt ever prevented her  
from taking it whenever it was offered. He envied her that  
self-possession.

"Really, Nicola." He watched her preen contentedly under his  
appreciative gaze. Even her vanity had charm. "I could hardly  
contain my curiosity. How was your trip? And how is the little  
doctor?"

Straight to the point, Nick thought. LaCroix must have told  
her. "Fine," he answered. "She's doing very well." His tone did  
not invite further discussion, and Janette looked away, playing  
idly with one of her rings.

"And has she aged well?" she asked at last. "It has been  
five years, after all."

Nick hid a smile. So it was reassurance Janette wanted. "She  
has a some fine lines around her eyes, a few gray hairs," he  
said. "You wouldn't mistake her for a twenty-five year old. But  
yes, I would say she is aging well."

Janette looked up at him. "And does she love you still?"

Nick snorted. "Not so you'd notice. She lost her temper and  
threw me out of her apartment. And she's three months  
pregnant."

"Pregnant? She has married?" Nick shook his head. "Who is  
the father, then?"

"Another doctor. He's probably dead," he said to forestall  
further questions. "He's a doctor in Sierra Leone. His clinic  
was blown up and he's missing, presumed dead. It was in the  
news this weekend."

"Nicola, you know I never read newspapers. What was he doing  
in Sierra Leone?"

"It's a long story."

"You do not wish to discuss it with me. Very well." Janette  
turned her head slightly away from him, chin fractionally  
elevated, as she always had when she wanted Nick to know he had  
offended her.

For centuries he had responded by apologizing immediately,  
begging her to smile on him once more. As time went on more and  
more effort seemed to be required to gain that smile. He had  
abased himself, made her extravagant gifts, attended to her  
every demand and whim, and still the smiles were more and more  
difficult to earn. He suspected she enjoyed the efforts he  
made. Who wouldn't? But in the end, she had left him anyway. He  
realised, now, that she had simply been passing on to him the  
abuse she had suffered at the hands of the men in her mortal  
life, and of LaCroix once she crossed over - relieving her  
sense of powerlessness by abusing him in turn. And he felt  
sympathy for her. But she had no power over him now, and he  
ignored the lifted chin, the averted gaze.

"You're right, I don't," he said. "It wouldn't interest  
you."

Janette glanced at him in surprise. After all this time, she  
still had not learned that he no longer responded to her  
disapproval. But she changed tactics without breaking stride,  
and answered simply, 'You are right. It does not interest me. I  
am interested only in what you propose to do."

"In the long term, I don't know," Nick said. ""Right now, I  
plan to find out what's happened to Natalie's friend."

"And if he is alive?"

"I'll let her know."

Janette leaned back against the back of the couch again, a  
trace of a smile playing on her meticulously painted lips. "You  
cannot deceive me, Nicola. If he is alive, you plan to rescue  
him and deliver him into the arms of his beloved. Such a noble,  
self-sacrificing gesture! I do not see how you could resist it.  
The little doctor would be so grateful; you would be her hero  
forever. And you will be able to think ever after what a far,  
far better thing you did." She smiled with satisfaction at the  
embarrassment in Nick's face as she finished speaking.

He turned away from her and busied himself pouring another  
glass of cow's blood. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of  
her dress as she rose and crossed to the fireplace. "I didn't  
know you read Dickens, Janette."

"You are changing the subject, cherie."

Nick turned back and smiled at her ruefully. "You know me  
too well. Perhaps I would do that, if I could, but in all  
probability he's not alive to rescue. I'll make some inquiries  
tomorrow." In the window's reflection he saw her examining the  
carved walking stick, broken jaggedly at one end, which leaned  
against one side of the mantlepiece. She set it down as he  
turned. He contemplated her. "Something is troubling you,  
Janette. Tell me."

She remained silent for a moment. "I just wish I knew what  
fascinated you so about her," she said at last. "I never  
understood your interest. She always seemed quite ordinary to  
me. So very  " she searched for the word. "- mortal," she  
said finally.

"But that's what I like about her", Nick said. "Her  
humanity. Her 'mortality' as you call it. It gives her her  
passion. Things matter to her. She has no cynicism at all.  
Everything she does engages her utterly. My cure, when she was  
working on it; her work; her family; she throws herself into  
everything heart and soul. She has lost none of that in the  
last years. I'd forgotten how refreshing it is to be with her."

"Her passion, as you call it, is not always good for her  
judgment", observed Janette. "It is a miracle it did not kill  
her. And you too." Her eyes flickered towards the walking  
stick.

"Of course there are dangers to passion", agreed Nick. "But  
I don't think they're as soul-destroying as the dangers of  
being bored and disengaged. At least she's alive. You and I  
 we've been around so long, hardly anything happens that  
we haven't seen before in one form or another. We've done it  
all already. It's hard to care anymore. She cares. She cares  
all the time." He drank from his glass.

"And when you're around her, you care too," Janette said.

"It's easier, yes."

Janette moved to him and placed a hand on his forearm,  
looking up at him earnestly. "But that's precisely the danger,  
Nicola. It's all very well for mortals. They must care about  
their momentary concerns. It shelters them from the knowledge  
of their certain deaths. But we are different. We must not grow  
attached. What is virtue for them is fatal for us. We go on and  
on, and everything we care for will not last as long as we do  
ourselves. If we care, we can go mad."

"If we don't, we're certain to. It's not becoming a vampire  
that kills the soul, Janette. It's letting our hearts grow  
cold. Natalie reminds me of what it is to have a warm heart."

Janette sighed. "I cannot persuade you that this is folly,  
Nicola."

"Do you really want to?" Nick asked. "Do you really believe  
it's folly to allow ourselves to care?"

Janette looked away from him, with a fractional shake of her  
head. "No. But I can tell you that it is painful. I would guard  
you from that, if I could."

"Pain is an inevitable part of life, Janette," Nick said  
gently. "It's better than being dead. I was dead for a long  
time. I'm tired of it. I want to live. Whatever the  
consequences."

She considered this, and shrugged. "You appear to have made  
up your mind," she said. "And no doubt you wish to be left  
alone to plan your expedition." She walked back towards the  
couch and bent to retrieve her cloak.

Nick went with her. She was right, he did want to begin  
making inquiries into the fate of Dr. Mackenzie. But he made an  
effort to be a gracious host. "You needn't leave so soon,  
Janette. You've barely arrived," he protested.

She shook her head. "I merely wanted to say hello, and catch  
up on your news. But I can see that you are busy. I won't  
impose further, Nicola. In any case, Gaetan is waiting."

Nick raised an eyebrow, "Gaetan?" He took the cloak from her  
hands, adjusting it around her shoulders. "Is he new?"

She smiled impishly. "New enough to be entertaining. He is  
only two hundred, imagine. Everything is still fresh to him.  
She fastened the cloak at her neck. "All the best with your  
rescue mission."

"Thanks. Though it's probably no rescue. Even if he didn't  
die at the clinic, he's most likely dead somewhere else by  
now."

"No doubt you will discover the truth, whatever it is." He  
walked her to the window where she paused, one hand on the  
drape. "'You say the little doctor lost her temper with you?"  
she asked. Nick nodded.

"Then I would not lose all hope, Nicola. If she felt nothing  
now, she would have shown you only civility."

"I hope for nothing, Janette. Except perhaps the renewal of  
our friendship."

Janette smiled. "Of course, mon cher". She kissed him on the  
cheek and was gone in a blur of air.

§§§

Nick looked after her absently, his thoughts already  
elsewhere, as he finished his glass of cow's blood. Which of  
his contacts could most quickly find out for him what had  
happened to the doctor? He set down the glass on the side table  
and moved into the study, where he logged on to his Macintosh  
G4 cube. Research had become so much easier in the last five  
years.

He searched two public and one subscription news clipping  
database for articles bringing him up to date on current events  
in Sierra Leone, and specific information on the clinic  
bombing. The political background information told him little  
of use. RUF forces had been active in the vicinity of Magburaka  
for some time. The latest peace accord had once again broken  
down, British UN forces had recently landed in Freetown to  
contain the disturbances, and the scheduled Sierra Leone  
elections had been put off once again because of the level of  
civic unrest. In other words, nothing new.

Stories about the clinic bombing were little more  
enlightening. The Reuters wire story identified the schoolhouse  
as the site of an MSF clinic run by Dr. Marcus Mackenzie,  
confirming what he already knew, and added that the whereabouts  
of Dr. Mackenzie were presently unknown. Another doctor,  
Anneliese Eckhardt, was apparently missing as well, but no  
details were offered.

Most sources didn't identify the body in the doorway. AP and  
Reuters went so far as to call it "as yet unknown". As Dr.  
Mackenzie was admittedly missing, that had to mean that the  
wire service writers doubted that the body was his. Two papers,  
the Toronto Sun and the New York Post, identified the body as  
Dr. Marcus Mackenzie, physician for MSF, but neither gave their  
sources, and neither was particularly trustworthy. He tracked  
down the bylines for both articles and emailed the writers as a  
"friend of the family" to request further information. As an  
afterthought, he found the phone numbers for the international  
desks at AP and Reuters. Tomorrow morning he would find out who  
their Freetown stringers were, and contact them directly.

He thought for a moment, then emailed the heads of deBrabant  
Foundation projects in Senegal, Mali, Nigeria and Guinea asking  
them to find out what they could about the clinic bombing.  
Unfortunately there were no current Foundation-funded missions  
in Sierra Leone itself, but perhaps those farther afield could  
still discover something.

What next? He sat back. It had been several years since he  
had tried to investigate a crime. I used to break down the  
available options, he remembered, and come up with a plan for  
each possibility. All right. What do I do if the body is  
Mackenzie's? Find a way to make sure of the ID, via dental  
records or something similar. Someone in Sierra Leone can be  
hired to do that. I'll call MSF tomorrow and find out if  
there's any assistance I can offer.

All right. What if the body isn't Mackenzie's? He got up and  
began to pace. Then Mackenzie is somewhere else, dead or alive.  
If he's dead, someone will probably leave the body somewhere  
obvious and claim credit for it shortly. There's nothing I need  
to do.

What if he's alive? Then where is he, and why hasn't he  
surfaced? Perhaps he's gone into hiding somewhere in the  
vicinity. Perhaps he's been injured and can't make contact  
until he recuperates. Either way, he'll show up eventually, and  
again there's nothing I need to do.

Nick noticed that he had polished off the last of his bottle  
of cows' blood and went to the refrigerator for another. What  
other possibilities are there? If it's not his body, and he's  
not dead or wounded or in hiding somewhere else, why hasn't he  
made contact? There was only one option left. He must have been  
abducted, most likely by the same group that bombed the clinic.

But what for? No word of a ransom demand had filtered out to  
the press. Perhaps it was being kept quiet. I can ask Feliks if  
he can find any traces of unusual movements of money in or out  
of Sierra Leone government accounts, he thought. And perhaps  
check on MSF accounts as well. But perhaps there had been no  
ransom demand. Then why would he have been taken? It was  
growing late and Nick had had little sleep; it was a moment  
before the obvious answer struck him. Because they need a  
doctor, of course.

He was exasperated with himself for not seeing it sooner.  
This had been easier when he had someone to bounce ideas off.  
He went over the options again, ticking them off in his mind.  
If the body at the clinic is Mackenzie's, all I can do is offer  
assistance, if they need it, to MSF to make a positive ID. If  
he's dead elsewhere, word will eventually come out. If he's  
alive but in hiding for some reason, he'll surface eventually.  
In either case there's nothing I can do but wait for  
developments. There's no urgent need for speed.

But if Mackenzie's been abducted by the RUF, he thought,  
maybe there is. If they're holding him for ransom, they may get  
tired of waiting. Or the ransom demand may be refused, and  
he'll be no further use to them. And if they're holding him  
because they need a doctor  his thoughts trailed off and  
he rubbed his forehead. Then he's safe as long as they need  
him, he decided, and as long as he's willing to work for them.  
And as long as he doesn't seem likely to try to escape. There's  
no way to know how long that will be. So what do I do?

Nick had a last drink from the bottle he was holding, and  
recorked it. He made his way over to the refrigerator to put it  
away. If Mackenzie's been abducted, he thought, someone had  
better find him fast. And even if I don't know the terrain, I'm  
a better tracker than anyone on the ground there. So if there's  
any chance he's been abducted, I should go to Sierra Leone.  
Janette may be right, he thought. I may be mounting a rescue  
mission after all. Which means more airports, an internal voice  
pointed out. Wonderful.

He ran his hand through his hair. He'd rule out the other  
possibilities first. MSF probably knew more than anyone about  
the real situation in Sierra Leone, but how to get the  
information out of them? Perhaps he should try the  
time-honoured method of offering them money. It usually worked.

He went back to his Mac and logged on again. One email went  
to Feliks, now in Lausanne, asking him to report back on  
unusual movements of money in and out of Sierra Leone, Sierra  
Leone holding companies, and MSF accounts. For Feliks' usual  
hefty fee, of course, but if money was being raised to pay a  
ransom, Feliks would find out. Another email went to the  
deBrabant Foundation secretary.

André,

please contact Médécins Sans  
Frontières headquarters in Paris and tell them that  
the deBrabant Foundation is interested in making a  
substantial contribution to their work in Sierra Leone. I'd  
like to go over the details personally, so could you set up a  
meeting with their chief for me this evening? Any time after  
8:00 is fine. Assure him that it won't take long, but it must  
be this evening, as I will be tied up for the rest of the  
month. Email me the details. I won't be available by phone  
today. Thanks -

N. Knight

 

He looked out the window as he logged off. It was almost  
dawn. A good night's work, he hoped. And perhaps by this  
evening he'd be able to phone Natalie with some news. He  
unplugged the phone, pulled the drapes closed, and fell across  
the bed. I'll get up in a minute to undress, he thought  
sleepily, and closed his eyes.

§§§

When Nick awoke the sun had just touched the western  
horizon. He stretched and padded barefoot out to the kitchen,  
tucking his shirt back into his trousers. He uncorked the  
half-bottle of cow's blood he had left the night before and  
drank it as he plugged in the phone and checked his voice mail.  
There was a message from André; a 9:00 p.m. meeting had  
been arranged for him with Pierre Guerin, Paris head of MSF, at  
the MSF offices. He included the address, and driving  
instructions from the closest motorway. André was the  
perfect secretary, Nick thought. He did exactly what was asked,  
however difficult or bizarre, and asked no questions about  
anything he did not need to know to perform his duties. He  
checked his watch: he had an hour and a half before the  
meeting.

He read his email next. A note from André, repeating  
the information in the phone message. A message from Feliks. He  
had detected no unusual movements of funds, either from MSF  
accounts or in or out of those of the government or rebel  
forces in Sierra Leone. Trust Feliks to know where the rebels  
were keeping their money. So it didnt look as if a ransom  
had been paid or as money was being collected for one, at this  
point. Email from the Brabant heads in Zaire and Nigeria,  
telling him nothing he had not heard from the wire reports.  
Well, that had been a long shot. Nothing from the New York Post  
writer. The Sun writer admitted that in his haste to make a  
deadline he had misread the AP report and assumed that Dr.  
Mackenzie was the body found at the scene of the bombing. A  
retraction would be printed if necessary when more information  
became available. It was probably fair to assume the Post  
writer had made the same error. It was too late to phone the  
Reuters desk to get the name of their Freetown stringer, but  
there seemed little point now anyway. He had all the  
information he was likely to get from that source.

Nick showered and changed. He had a good half hour before he  
had to leave, so ran a cursory search of the newsclipping  
databases. If the doctors had been found, or the body's  
identity discovered, it had not been published during the day.  
Time to find out what M. Guerin knew. He stepped outside and  
hailed a cab.

§§§

Guerin proved to be a slightly-built, balding man with  
gold-rimmed glasses shielding his mildly bulging pale blue  
eyes. Nick would have guessed his profession as accountant or  
civil servant. He was the soul of politeness, offering Nick  
refreshment and waving away his apology at disturbing his  
evening. He was happy to discuss MSF's efforts in Sierra Leone,  
from the Connaught Hospital clinic to the Murray Town refugee  
camp, the public health initiatives and the vaccination  
campaigns. He spoke without wasting effort on rhetorical  
flourishes or attempts to persuade Nick of the value of the  
work they did there. He seemed to feel, correctly, that the  
facts spoke for themselves. He had collected documentation on  
the Sierra Leone projects, which he gave Nick in a cardboard  
portfolio. He had also somehow found the time that day to make  
up three proposals for projects the Foundation might wish to  
consider funding in Sierra Leone: updated equipment in the  
Murray Town camp; funding for a researcher into drug-resistant  
sleeping sickness; or ongoing funding for the vaccination  
clinics in Sierra Leone.

Nick was impressed and humbled by the man's industry and  
dedication. He accepted the documents and promised that the  
Foundation board members would look them over and make their  
recommendation within the week, privately resolving that at  
least two of the proposals would be funded. He had wondered how  
to approach the question of the clinic bombing. Guerin's  
transparent integrity prompted him to an answering sincerity.  
As he pocketed the files Guerin had given him, he said, "I  
expect that the deBrabant Foundation will fund at least one of  
these proposals. But in fact I came here largely for another  
reason. I have been asked by a friend of Dr. Mackenzie to find  
out what I can about the clinic bombing. Is it certain that he  
is dead?"

Guerin said nothing, and Nick wondered if he had been too  
abrupt; but the other man said after a brief hesitation, "I'm  
not sure how much I can tell you. We're trying to discover Dr.  
Mackenzie's whereabouts. We suspect that any media attention  
will endanger his life."

"I understand. Anything you tell me will go no farther than  
 " Nick was going to say "this room", but stopped  
himself. Something about Dr. Guerin prompted him to be  
truthful. "- than Dr. Mackenzie's friend."

"Who is - ?"

Nick sighed. Back in Toronto, he conducted the  
interrogation; here the tables seemed to be turned. Perhaps a  
touch of hypnosis  but the man deserved better than that.  
"This is confidential." Guerin nodded. "Dr. Natalie Lambert. A  
friend of his sister's."

"Oh, Dr. Lambert!" Guerin was smiling now, and Nick smiled  
reluctantly in turn. "Marc told me about her on his way through  
Paris. She sounds like a remarkable woman. A pity he could not  
recruit her for us, but MSF isn't for everybody." He frowned."  
Why didn't she contact me directly?"

"She didn't think you would know who she was, or be willing  
to speak to her."

"Discretion is the soul of a virtuous woman," said Guerin  
approvingly. "But she did not need to be so modest." He seemed  
to come to a decision. " I'm sure, from Marcus' description of  
her, that Dr. Lambert will understand the need for  
confidentiality."

Nick nodded, and Guerin sat forward and spoke in a lowered  
tone of voice. "What I'm about to tell you has only been known  
for a few hours. The body found in the clinic  perhaps  
Dr. Lambert saw the news broadcast?" Nick nodded again and the  
other man looked distressed. "How painful for her. Certainly  
you must reassure her. This afternoon we confirmed from the  
dental records that the body was not Dr. Mackenzie's.  
Apparently Marc was not in the clinic at the time of the  
bombing. His assistant, Edgar Mogabele, escaped the rebels and  
hid at his cousin's house in Yele until yesterday. He tells us  
that Marc had gone up to the hospital when the clinic was  
attacked. The rebels abducted Dr. Eckhardt, another of our  
staff, and he saw them drive off with her in the back of their  
truck.

"But we don't know what happened to Marc. He was in the  
hospital shortly before the bombing. The last person to see him  
was a nurse, who says he ran out the front door just after the  
explosion. We're trying to gather more information, but it is  
difficult. Everyone is afraid of the R.U.F. If anyone knows  
more, they don't want to talk."

"Who was killed in the bombing, if not Dr. Mackenzie?" Nick  
asked.

"Edgar says it was the leader of the raid. He thinks the  
bomb went off ahead of schedule."

"Do you know where the truck was headed?" Nick asked.

Guerin shrugged. "That I could not tell you. I promise you,  
M. Knight, every possible effort is being made to locate Dr.  
Mackenzie. You may assure Dr. Lambert that she is not the only  
person concerned for his welfare. He is a highly valued member  
of our team. And a personal friend," he added. "I will spare no  
pains to find him."

He hesitated. "You may certainly tell Dr. Lambert that he  
was not at the clinic. But please ask her not to publicize this  
information. We are afraid that if it becomes known that we are  
looking for him, it will endanger his life, so we are allowing  
it to appear that we believe him to be dead."

"I'm sure it's not necessary, Dr. Guerin, but I will warn  
her," said Nick. "And there's been no ransom demand?" he asked,  
to be certain.

Guerin shook his head. "Nothing. Which disturbs us. Perhaps  
he was taken prisoner but escaped. Or  " he spread his  
hands in a Gallic shrug. "He could be anywhere."

Nick thought this over and came to a decision. "I'd like to  
help you find him," he said.

"Thank you, but I don't see how  that is," Guerin  
corrected himself courteously, "your assistance is of course  
welcome, but everything that can be done is being done."

"I have resources you don't," said Nick. "It could speed  
matters. And I think speed is of the essence here. If Dr.  
Mackenzie is being held without a ransom demand, surely he'll  
be killed as soon as his captors have no immediate use for him.  
He's a danger to them as long as anyone might mount a search  
for him. My guess is that his body will be found in a public  
place sometime in the next couple of weeks."

The other nodded sadly. "That is our thought also. But what  
can you do, M. Knight? Money will only help to a point."

"I wasn't speaking only of money. I have contacts in Sierra  
Leone", Nick said, hoping that this would turn out to be true.  
Surely there were some members of the community there. "I'll  
need to travel there myself, though."

Guerin looked troubled. "I don't see how that's possible.  
You would be in danger yourself, and your presence could alert  
the R.U.F. that a search was underway."

"I can come to research your projects in Sierra Leone for  
the deBrabant Foundation."

Guerin was silent for a moment. "Forgive me for asking," he  
said at last. "But Sierra Leone is a long way to go for a man I  
take it you have never met. What is your interest in this  
matter?" His tone was polite, but his gaze met Nick's without  
wavering. Something was not as it seemed here, and Guerin was  
obviously not the kind to let it slide, even for a wealthy  
potential benefactor.

"Dr. Lambert is an old friend," Nick answered, aware as he  
spoke of how weak it sounded. But Guerin was looking at him  
speculatively.

"So out of friendship for Dr. Lambert, you would travel to  
Sierra Leone in the hope of finding Dr. Mackenzie for her."  
Nick nodded. If he could, he would have flushed with  
embarrassment. It sounded foolish, put so baldly. But he felt  
that he needed to do it. Natalie had suffered so much in her  
life already. He wanted to know that he had at least tried to  
save her from more pain.

Guerin smiled gently. "A noble gesture," he said. "She must  
truly be a remarkable woman. Very well. Willem Eckhardt is  
co-ordinating the search effort in Sierra Leone. His wife has  
also vanished. I will inform him that you are coming to lend  
your assistance. You'll have to get there on your own; we can't  
afford to fly you."

Nick shrugged. "That's not a problem." He might have to hire  
a plane to land in Freetown after sunset, though, he thought  
glumly. It was very unlikely that Freetown airport had  
expanding gates connecting directly to the planes.

But Guerin was standing up. "Wait a second. Let me check  
something." He crossed behind his desk and touched a few keys  
on his computer console. A complex and multicoloured calendar  
appeared on the screen. A few strokes later Guerin looked up.  
"You're in luck, M. Knight. If you can get to Lagos by Thursday  
afternoon, we have a supply flight going to Freetown at 9:00  
p.m. that evening. You won't land until 11:00 p.m., so it will  
be a long day for you. But it might be easier than trying to  
find another connecting flight."

Inwardly Nick sighed with relief. "A late arrival is fine.  
I'll arrange to be there. How will I find the plane?"

Guerin gave him the details. "I will let the pilot know he  
should expect a passenger," he said finally. "Is there anything  
further you require?"

"No. And thank you, you've been very helpful," Nick said. "I  
will bring your proposals before the deBrabant Foundation board  
before I leave. But I should not take up more of your time  
now." He tucked the papers Guerin had given him into the pocket  
of his jacket as he spoke, and rose.

Guerin rose also to escort him to the door. "I wish you  
every success in your mission, M. Knight," he said. "Dr.  
Mackenzie is a loss to all of us. Please keep me informed."

"Of course," said Nick. He stepped out into the chilly Paris  
evening, the other man watching him thoughtfully as he went.

By the time Nick re-entered his apartment it was late  
afternoon in Vancouver. If he phoned Natalie now he would only  
reach her machine, he thought, and decided to wait until he  
could speak to her personally. He called his travel agent and  
booked a flight for Lagos Thursday morning. His best option,  
the Air France direct Paris-Lagos flight, left at 10:30 a.m.  
and arrived at 4:30 p.m. Lagos airport, the agent assured him,  
had expanding gates, so his sunlight allergy would not cause  
any difficulties. As for the Paris end, he would arrange to be  
at de Gaulle before dawn, armed with a paperback and a hip  
flask of bovine. He was strongly tempted to simply lease a Lear  
jet and pilot for the month, but it was probably best not to  
draw too much attention to himself. Landing in Freetown in a  
private jet would mark him as wealthy and therefore suspect.

He opened a fresh bottle of cow's blood and poured himself a  
glass. Now to find out whom to contact in the Freetown  
community. He assumed there was a Freetown community; it was a  
war zone after all. Aristotle would know. He could always be  
reached by email, though Nick had no idea where he was living  
these days; his last address had been Munich, but that was  
three years ago. He emailed the ancient saying simply "please  
call me as soon as possible. I'm in Paris. N. Knight." He  
smiled as he sent it; every time he typed in [Aristoteles@hotmail.com](mailto:Aristoteles@hotmail.com) he  
remembered how irritated the older vampire had been to discover  
that the account [aristotle@hotmail.com](mailto:aristotle@hotmail.com) was  
already taken. He seemed to feel he had an automatic right to  
the name.

Who else might know anything about the community in Sierra  
Leone? On impulse Nick phoned Feliks in Lausanne. Feliks would  
only know about vampires with money, but it was a start.

Feliks answered the phone sneezing. "You pick your times,  
Knight! My catellya maxima has come down with a fungal  
infection."

Nick tried to follow. "And you've caught it?"

"Very funny. The phone startled me just as I was dosing the  
poor girl with cinnamon powder." He sneezed again. "There's  
cinnamon everywhere."

"Think of it as a preventive measure. Every plant in your  
nursery is protected from fungus now."

"I assume you didn't call to discuss gardening, Nicholas."  
Feliks sounded irritable and Nick got to the point.

"I'm thinking of going to Sierra Leone myself."

"What on earth for?"

"On business." It was easier than trying to explain. "Do you  
know offhand where I would find members of the community?  
Anyone I could look up and say I'm a friend of yours?"

"And relieve of their money? I don't do introductions,  
Knight."

Feliks' notorious over-protectiveness where his clients were  
concerned was one of his chief strengths as a financial  
advisor, but it could be frustrating. "Come on, Feliks," Nick  
said wearily. "You know I don't need money. I just need a  
contact there in case of emergencies."

Feliks mulled this over. Nick could hear the sounds of  
friction on fabric and imagined him brushing the cinnamon off  
his jacket with one hand, phone cradled in the other. "Let me  
check," he said at last. "I'll see what I can tell you without  
breaking client confidentiality. Perhaps the name of a bar the  
community uses."

"That would be helpful," Nick said. "A name or two would be  
more helpful, of course. Of friends, perhaps, rather than  
clients."

"I don't know if " Felix muttered. There was a soft  
sound of keyboard clicking, and Feliks murmuring to himself,  
"that's odd  let me see"  more clicks  "hm.  
Hm." He came back to the phone.

"Can't help you, I'm afraid. I don't have that many contacts  
with the African communities in any case, except in Morocco and  
South Africa of course, but I don't seem to have any in Sierra  
Leone at all, not even acquaintances. Of course anyone with  
money has probably left the place long since."

"Why? I thought we LIKED war zones," said Nick.

Feliks sighed. "Sometimes I wonder where you've spent the  
last century, Nicholas. Nobody hunts anymore. And there are war  
zones and war zones. Sierra Leone is a disaster area, not a  
party waiting to happen. I don't expect you'll find a community  
there at all."

Great. "Can you think of anyone else I could ask?" Nick  
asked.

"Try Aristotle," said Feliks. "Now if that's all, I'd like  
to get back to my catellya."

"Give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery", said Nick,  
and rang off. Now what? Wait for Aristotle to call, he  
supposed. In the meantime there were fund transfers and  
organizational set-up details he needed to arrange for the  
addiction research institute the deBrabant Foundation was to  
fund in Vancouver. Whether or not he ended up going there  
himself, he thought wryly.

It was a bit humbling to realise that Natalie genuinely had  
mixed feelings about his presence in Vancouver. He'd spent five  
years telling himself that the best thing he could do for her  
was leave her alone, and hope that she would move on and forget  
him. It was an unexpected shock to discover that apparently,  
that was exactly what she'd done. His sensible Natalie,  
recognizing a problem, getting a grip on it, and doing what  
needed to be done to solve it, as she always did. If what it  
took to get over him was counselling, a new city, and a new  
career, Natalie had the courage to make all those changes. He  
had to admire her.

But he didn't have to like it. He realized in retrospect  
that he had unconsciously expected her to be right where he  
left her. He had known, intellectually, that five years was a  
long time to a mortal; a lot could change. But somehow he had  
never really thought anything would. He'd unconsciously assumed  
that after some initial begging for forgiveness on his part,  
and some anger and reluctance on hers, their relationship would  
essentially go back to the way it had been. He'd make a manful  
apology, she'd accept it, and after that brief awkwardness, he  
could step back into her life without a ripple, as if he'd  
never left it, as if she'd kept his place open for him, to  
return whenever he chose.

Not that he'd meant to make the same mistakes. He would deal  
better with her this time, he'd thought. He'd be more open with  
her, tell her how he felt and what he thought. But he had  
simply assumed there would be a "this time". He'd assumed she  
would want him back in her life.

He hadn't expected to meet an independent woman who just  
didn't need him anymore. She'd accepted his apology; she'd  
apologized herself; and then  what? And then she hadn't  
seemed to be particularly interested in seeing him again. Happy  
to spend an evening with him, yes. Enjoyed his company,  
certainly. Still found him pleasant to look at, no question. He  
had known too many women, vampire and mortal, in the last eight  
centuries not to be able to recognize all that. But she didn't  
need him. She wasn't attached anymore. How he spent his time  
was a matter of interest to her, not importance. He no longer  
had a place in her life, and she didn't seem immediately  
disposed to make him one.

He could hardly blame her. But he was surprised how much it  
hurt.

To top it all off, she was pregnant, and by a man apparently  
well worthy of her love and respect. He wasn't sure why that  
made it even worse. It wasn't as if he wanted her to be  
involved with someone who didn't deserve her. Though going to a  
sub-Saharan war zone to try to save her lover from certain  
death did look, to the objective eye, like an over-reaction in  
the opposite direction. A counter-productive move even if he  
succeeded, as LaCroix might point out. He wasn't even sure of  
his motives, except that when he'd heard her crying over Marcus  
he'd felt something tear inside.

At least it was something he could do  
for her, he thought. And it was better than sitting here in  
Paris, feeling helpless. He sighed and pushed a hand through  
his hair. What was keeping Aristotle? He usually answered  
almost immediately. Perhaps he'd emailed. Nick paused to pour  
himself another glass of cow's blood and went back to the study  
to check. Nothing. He looked at his watch. It would be 6 p.m.  
in Vancouver; Natalie might be home by now. At least he had  
moderately good news to give her. He picked up the phone again  
and dialed from memory.

Nat picked up on the first ring. "Nat? It's Nick."

"Oh  oh, hi, Nick." She sounded a bit surprised.

"Is this a good time?"

"Sure. I'm expecting Sanjit to call when she gets off-shift,  
but that won't be for another half hour. I wondered if she  
might be calling early." Nat sounded a bit dispirited, anxious  
even, and Nick remembered suddenly that she'd been scheduling  
an ultrasound as he left Vancouver.

"How were your tests? Is everything all right?" he asked.

He could hear her sigh over the phone. "Probably. The baby's  
okay. But the initial look at the ultrasound shows a small  
separation at the top of the placenta. That's where the blood  
is coming from. Sanjit 's going to take a closer look at the  
results before she goes home, and give me a call. But it should  
be fine. Usually they heal themselves, no problem. I'm sure  
everything will be okay."

She didn't sound sure. She sounded as if she was trying  
desperately to reassure herself. Nick wasn't sure what to say.  
She wouldn't want to hear that she sounded scared. "You poor  
dear, you sound terrible, tell me about it" would get his head  
snapped off. What would she find cheering? She used to hate to  
feel helpless, he thought. It always made her feel better when  
she was doing something to solve a problem. Perhaps he should  
ask what she was doing about this one.

"So what's the plan?" he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"What's the treatment?" She really was worried, he thought.  
She had always been quick to follow a change of subject.

"That's the worst part", she said. "The treatment is bed  
rest. With nothing to do but worry. I can't DO anything. I can  
get up to visit the bathroom, get something to eat, or change  
videos. So long as I don't do it too often. And Im going  
to run out of videos soon. The paramedics will find me trapped  
behind a mound of pizza boxes, watching The Opposite of Sex for  
the forty-seventh time, stark raving mad."

At least she could laugh at her situation, Nick thought. "I  
liked the Opposite of Sex," he said, "but is it a film for a  
pregnant lady to watch?"

"No. But it's one of the only four I own."

'I'm curious. What are the other three?" It couldn't hurt to  
distract her.

"Casablanca , Groundhog Day, and the Shawshank Redemption.  
They were all gifts. Tells you nothing about my tastes." He  
could hear a smile in her voice.

"Except you have friends who thought you'd like them."

"Maybe they were wrong. Maybe they're ex-friends." Now she  
was teasing him. A good sign.

"But they're all good films," he protested. "At least, the  
ones I know. I haven't seen Groundhog Day."

"You haven't?" Nat said incredulously. "Oh, you must. Rent  
it sometime." No invitation to see her copy, he noted. But it  
was too soon to expect that.

"I will," he promised. "But as for you  does  
Blockbuster have a courier service?" He was only half-joking.

"I don't think so. I'll have to rely on the Friends of  
Natalie Videos'n'Meals On Wheels. A few friends are taking it  
in rotation to come by every day with food and film," she  
explained. "If this lasts more than a week or so I'll have to  
come up with something else, but it will do for now."

"It sounds as if you have things well in hand."

"I'm doing my best."

Nat was sounding nearly cheerful now, her old energetic self  
returning as she was reminded that she was dealing with things  
the best way she could. Privately Nick congratulated himself.  
Perhaps it was time to come to the point of his call.

'I called with moderately good news, Nat."

"Do tell," she said at once. "I was afraid to ask."

"The body at the clinic wasn't Marcus."

"Thank God." There was silence as she absorbed this, then  
"How do they know?" and "Where is he then?" followed on top of  
each other.

"Dental records. And nobody knows."

"But where could he be?"

"Anywhere. It sounds as if he may have been kidnapped by the  
R.U.F., but there have been no ransom demands, so no one knows  
for sure. He's not out of the woods yet, Nat," Nick added  
gently. "He could be dead somewhere else. He could be a  
prisoner. He's still in danger."

He could hear the brush of her warm chestnut hair against  
the receiver as she nodded. "I know. I understand. It's just  
such a relief to know that wasn't him at the clinic. " She  
paused. "So what's happening? Is anyone looking for him?"

"MSF is doing its best. I'm not sure whether they're  
liaising with the local police, or keeping their search quiet.  
Marcus' life might be endangered if it became known that a  
search was underway." He hesitated. He wanted, very strongly,  
to go to Sierra Leone without letting her know. He didn't want  
her to feel beholden to him. He didn't want her to hope for too  
much. And his habitual concealment of his thoughts and actions,  
the product of centuries of life as a covert serial killer, was  
a powerful barrier to openness. But their old friendship had  
foundered partly, largely, on the rock of his secrecy on  
matters of importance. They would never have come to the  
disaster of their last night together in Toronto if he had  
spoken more freely to her in the years before. He had promised  
himself that he would not make that mistake with her again. He  
took a breath.

"I've offered to go to Sierra Leone to assist in the  
search."

"You? But why?" Natalie sounded genuinely surprised.

Nick considered and discarded several answers. "I have  
contacts in Sierra Leone", he said, hoping it was true.  
Aristotle had better come through. "I may have the  
entrée to areas where M.S.F. would be suspect."

"And a strange blonde European who only comes out at night  
won't stand out at all? Nick - "

Nick cut in hastily. "I also have the advantage of police  
training. And I'm an excellent tracker, Nat. I think I could  
speed the search considerably, and I have a feeling that any  
delay is dangerous."

"But  " Nat stopped, absorbing his words. "You're  
probably right, but  " she began again, and again fell  
silent. "I don't understand why you're doing this," she said at  
last.

Nick could think of no answer she would accept except the  
truth. "Because he sounds like a good man, and because he  
matters to you," he said. "And because you can't, in your  
condition. At least I'll feel as if I'm doing something to  
help."

There was a long silence. "You don't owe me anything, you  
know, Nick," Natalie said at last. "You don't have to do  
anything for me."

"I know." Nick hesitated again, and said diffidently, "Look,  
Nat, if you really don't want me to go, I won't. But I do want  
to help if I can. And it's less risk to me than it would be to  
almost anyone else."

After a moment he heard her say, "then all I can do is say  
'thank you'. Thank you, Nick. This is more than kind. Way  
more."

He relaxed, realising for the first time that he had been  
anxious about her response. He felt inexplicably pleased that  
she was willing to accept his help. "I'll do everything I can,  
Nat. But it may not be good news, you know," he added  
seriously.

"I know. But I'll know that everything that could be done  
was done, too. That will help a lot. It helps already."

"I'll do my best." Nick looked at his watch. "I have some  
details to tie up here, so I'll let you get back to your video.  
I'll try to call in a few days and let you know what's  
happening."

"When are you heading out?"

'Thursday morning. Tomorrow."

"Wow. Well, uh  " Natalie sounded unsure what to say.  
"Thanks again, Nick. This really means a lot to me. More than I  
can say."

"Don't think about it. It's my pleasure. It will be an  
adventure," said Nick. And maybe Lagos airport won't be too  
bad, he thought philosophically.

"Okay. Take care of yourself. Bring lots of sunscreen," said  
Nat. It was a feeble joke, but it lightened the mood.

"I will," Nick promised, smiling, and rang off.

He should do some shopping for the  
trip, he thought. Without the guarantee of a community to turn  
to in Sierra Leone, there were supplies he should bring with  
him for emergencies. The web had made this so much easier than  
it used to be. He logged on to his shopping agent and made his  
orders, paying the bonus for 24-hour delivery. When he was done  
he looked out the window. It was still several hours until  
dawn. He had time to finish doing the paperwork for the  
deBrabant Foundation Vancouver subsidiary, he thought. Or  
rather, he could finish leaving instructions for André  
to do it. He had already arranged to buy an old East Van  
apartment building on Hastings to use for offices and the  
outreach and rehab programs. André could write the  
provincial grant application. Nick had always hated grant  
applications anyway. But the money had to be transferred, the  
bank accounts set up, the paperwork for the real estate  
purchase needed to be faxed to André, and a myriad other  
details dealt with. He made a task list and settled in at the  
computer. At least the trip to Sierra Leone was forcing him to  
finish the work quickly; under normal circumstances he would  
have dragged his feet and taken another week.

He finished off the essentials just before dawn, and emailed  
André instructions for the rest of the transactions. As  
an afterthought, he also faxed André the documents Dr.  
Guérin had given him, with a scribbled note approving  
funding for all three proposals. Even if he didn't make it back  
from Sierra Leone, he'd have done some good there, he thought.  
He stood up and stretched, cracking the joints in his back. Odd  
that Aristotle hadn't gotten in touch. Perhaps this evening.

He went into the kitchen and drank the rest of the bottle  
without bothering to pour it into a glass. It wasn't as if the  
taste of bovine was worth lingering over. He pushed the thought  
aside. He had no other options. Well, other animals, perhaps.  
Perhaps he could go big game hunting in Sierra Leone, he  
thought idly. Did zebra taste different from horse? Did  
Australian vampires drink kangaroo blood? Did koala blood taste  
cute and fluffy? He dropped the bottle into the glass recycling  
bin and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Hours of sitting at the  
computer screen always made him a bit light-headed.

His eye fell on the phone as he crossed the living room, and  
he had an impulse to call Natalie again, just to make sure she  
was all right. But twice in one evening would be too much. And  
she was probably asleep by now. He drew the drapes and turned  
in for the day.

§§§

The phone was ringing. His eyes snapped open and he looked  
at the clock. Just after sunset. Aristotle, at last. He rolled  
off the bed and picked up before the machine cut in. "Knight  
here."

"Nicholas. I am so glad to find you in."

Nick closed his eyes. Of course. "LaCroix."

"Whom were you expecting?"

"Aristotle." Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose and carried  
the handset to the other side of the room where he opened the  
blackout drapes. It had rained during the day. The air smelled  
sweet and fresh. Streetlights flicked on as he watched,  
reflecting dimly on the wet pavement below.

"You won't hear from him," said  
LaCroix. " Surely you know that Aristotle takes a month's  
holiday with Vassilios on the island each spring?"

"Hm?" Nick said, distracted from the view. "Vassilios? What  
island?"

LaCroix sighed. "Really, Nicholas. You must learn to pay  
attention. Vassilios, Aristotle's beloved for the last, well,  
as long as I've known him and longer. A beautiful young man.  
Brought across in his prime, though not, I believe, by  
Aristotle. He lives on Aristotle's island near Skiros. He  
prefers to stay there year-round. Aristotle visits for a month  
each spring. No email, phone, or any other contact while he's  
there. Best not to ask what they're doing." Nick could imagine  
his sensual smile. "One wonders what Aristotle does to ensure  
such a beauty's loyalty."

"How do you know  " Nick paused, caught by an odd  
thought, and altered his question. "Why is it I don't know  
these things?"

"Because they don't interest you, Nicholas. You don't care  
for the community unless you want something." LaCroix' tone was  
matter-of-fact.

"That's not true," Nick protested. "I'm very fond of  
Janette. And even on occasion of you."

"For such crumbs do I daily give thanks," LaCroix said  
drily. "But we are family, Nicholas. The rest of the community  
has never held your attention. You have always been captivated  
by mortals, even when you accepted their natural role, as your  
prey."

Nick shrugged. "If so, it's hardly a bad thing."

"I beg to disagree."

"Feel free." Nick walked over to the door as he spoke and  
looked into the hallway. A box had arrived from his shopping  
agent, and the concierge had left it outside for him. He lifted  
it with one hand and deposited it inside the vestibule, phone  
cradled between his shoulder and ear. One day he would get  
himself a headset.

"So what precisely do you wish Aristotle to tell you?"  
LaCroix asked. "Perhaps I may be of assistance in his stead."

Nick had been uneasy about asking him. LaCroix never forgot  
a favour done or debt owed. But without Aristotle, it was  
unavoidable. "I was hoping he could give me some information on  
the community in Sierra Leone," he answered. "Introductions,  
the name of a gathering place perhaps."

"Even you should know, Nicholas, that for introductions you  
should come to me," reproved LaCroix. "Not that I can help you  
this time. There is so far as I know no community in Sierra  
Leone."

Nick sagged. "You're sure? None at all?"

"Nothing is certain. I can think of no one who has spent  
enough time there to need a forwarding address. But perhaps I  
travel in the wrong circles." In better circles, he meant.  
LaCroix was nothing if not a snob, a characteristic two  
thousand years as a vampire had only reinforced. There might be  
any number of lower-class vampires in Sierra Leone, Nick  
thought, whom LaCroix felt no need to mention.

"What about those you don't know personally?" he asked.

"I've heard of no one," said LaCroix. "Not just my own  
acquaintance and their families. We seem to have avoided the  
country more or less entirely. As we have most of central  
Africa. But surely you knew that."

Nick hadn't. He had never thought about it. "But why?" He  
felt increasingly frustrated. "I thought we liked war zones,"  
he said again.

LaCroix sighed. "Nicholas, do you ever read the papers?  
Sierra Leone is not just a war zone. It's one of the most truly  
unpleasant hell-holes man has ever created. Who in their right  
mind would want to visit? Feeding is no longer a real problem  
for us. We no longer need wars to supply discreet nourishment,  
when blood banks throw out expired units every day. And like  
anyone else, we prefer pleasant surroundings."

Nick moved into the living room, pushing the box ahead of  
him with one foot. He felt at a loss. Vampires rarely strayed  
in their associations outside their family groups of "blood"  
relatives and their acquaintances, on whom they depended for  
introduction to other families. Thus a loose global network  
formed, of friends of friends and relatives, so that a vampire  
going to a strange city was not thrown entirely on his own  
resources. Aristotle, without ever suggesting a preference,  
would have steered him towards the relatively trustworthy  
members of the community. So would LaCroix, he had to admit.  
Without introductions, or at least leads, to the community in  
Sierra Leone, it would be hard to proceed.

And he had been counting on the community there to speed his  
investigation. Most vampires had little interest in human  
affairs that did not directly affect them, but they still heard  
and saw, in their nocturnal travels, much that humans missed.  
With vampire assistance, he had thought he could locate Dr.  
Mackenzie in no more than a day or two. Now it seemed he would  
have to rely entirely on himself. Preoccupied with his  
thoughts, it took him a moment to realise that LaCroix was  
speaking again.

"I take it then that rumour does not lie, and you intend a  
rescue mission," LaCroix was saying. "Ever the Don Quixote,  
Nicholas?"

Of course Janette would have told him. "I'll give the  
searchers what help I can," said Nick. "But I'm not optimistic.  
There's no real reason to think the man is still alive."

"So why go?"

"Because I could be wrong."

"No, Nicholas. I meant in the general sense." LaCroix's  
weary tone reduced Nick to the role of an unsatisfactory  
schoolboy who had once again failed to meet even the most  
modest expectations of his intelligence. "Why go at all? Why  
not accept the general judgment of our kind, that Sierra Leone  
is to be avoided? Just out of curiosity, have you ever asked  
yourself why we tend to avoid the tropics?"

"Yes, in fact," Nick answered. "They're no worse than  
Copenhagen in June. Better, in fact; the night is longer."

There was a momentary silence. "But the day, Nicholas,"  
LaCroix said. "The sun is more direct. Death comes more quickly  
for those of our kind trapped outdoors."

"It's not as if it's slow anywhere else," said Nick. "And  
I'm not in the habit of going out in the noonday sun." He was  
almost certain LaCroix had been about to say something else.  
"Are there any other dangers I should know about?" he prodded.

As he spoke, Nick opened the box and checked off the  
contents. Banana Boat Baby Sunblock Lotion, SPF 50, with  
titanium dioxide. And Nat thought the sunscreen was a joke.  
Sharksuit SPF 100 long-sleeved t-shirt and bike shorts. To wear  
under his clothes, naturally. Tilly hat, foldable, to keep  
tucked in his pocket against a crisis. SPF-60 sunglasses. Nick  
didn't intend to be caught out in the tropical sun, but if it  
were unavoidable he planned to be able to survive for the two  
minutes or so it might take him to find shelter. In a long life  
it had never taken him longer than 20 seconds, but he was  
planning for emergencies.

There was another pause. "I don't know the area," LaCroix  
said at last. "From time to time one hears  disturbing  
stories. But we travel there so little that even I have not  
heard much."

"So that's all you can tell me. There are vague disturbing  
stories."

LaCroix sighed. "Does it matter? You can hardly expect to  
enjoy the visit in any case. Is the good doctor still so  
important to you?"

Nick straightened up. He set the sunglasses down on the side  
table. "I might ask you the same question," he said. "I  
understand you visited her. Why?"

"Curiosity, Nicholas. I wished to see what the years had  
made of her. I hoped to understand your continuing attraction.  
Which I do, incidentally. She is an admirable woman. But let us  
be reasonable. What point is there in your pursuit?"

"What point should there be?" Nick asked warily.

"Why torment yourself with love, or even friendship, for  
someone whose loss will inevitably haunt you? At least I would  
have given your sister immortality. Without it, our love can  
only bring pain. To them, and to us also. Blink, and they'll  
all be ghosts, Nicholas."

"Blink, and they'll all be gone," Nick agreed. "I know." He  
settled back onto his heels on the floor beside the box. His  
eyes fell upon a seventeenth-century miniature hanging over his  
bookcase, showing a pensive young noblewoman, painted just  
before her wedding. He remembered the artist. Poor Gustav, he  
thought idly. Tuberculosis had taken him when he had scarcely  
begun fulfil his early promise. The woman in the painting had  
herself died of a fever scarcely a year after the wedding. "But  
that is the point, LaCroix," he said at last. "Their lives are  
so short. They have so little time for happiness."

"And you can give them happiness?" The older vampire's tone  
dripped disbelief.

"No, " said Nick. "I just want to give those I can more of a  
chance to find it for themselves."

"Very noble, Nicholas. I'm aware of your recent  
philanthropic quests, but they are hardly to the point.  
Vaccinating children in India, an exercise in futility though  
it may be, is hardly the same as risking life and limb to save  
a man whose only claim on your attention is that your surgeon  
friend is fond of him. So I ask again. What do you hope to gain  
from this, Nicholas? Or are you setting one foot blindly in  
front of the other in your usual wilful ignorance?"

"It's no concern of yours, LaCroix," Nick said. "You gave me  
my freedom, or had you forgotten?"

"I expected you to use it sensibly," LaCroix retorted.

"Really? I thought you expected me to realise that I  
couldn't live without you, and beg you to take me back."

"It would do you no good if you did," said LaCroix shortly.  
"Your perennial lack of judgment may well lead you into yet  
another situation from which you can only escape with my  
assistance. But I will not rescue you again from the  
consequences of your own folly, Nicholas."

"If that's the price of freedom, I'll take it," Nick said.  
"Is that what you called to say?"

There was a brief silence. "No," LaCroix replied. "I called  
because I'm concerned. I haven't seen you so energetic since we  
left Toronto. You've been displaying admirable forethought and  
restraint in the last few years. You spend months planning each  
new venture. I've applauded your new caution. And when we spoke  
in Vancouver you did not seem about to do anything rash. But  
now, at the merest hint that Dr. Lambert needs help, you're  
barely in Paris before you go off again, half-packed and, dare  
I say, half-cocked. And I find myself wondering, as I did five  
years ago, if you have really thought this through."

Nick sat down on the couch behind him, holding the phone.  
"Think about it now, I beg you, Nicholas," LaCroix prodded  
gently. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because " Nick began, and finished slowly. "It just  
seems to be the thing to do."

"Why? Because it matters to the good doctor?"

A vivid image rose in Nick's mind, of Natalie sitting at her  
kitchen table weeping three mornings before. "Yes, I suppose,"  
he said. "It's something I can do for her. She did her best to  
be a good friend to me."

"And if you find and rescue her lover, you'll be quits? All  
debts paid, no further accounts owing?"

"It's not like that," Nick said. As so often in conversation  
with LaCroix, he began to feel boxed in, subtly nudged away  
from his original position into another he never meant to take.  
But he was finding it hard to put his reasons into words.

"Are you sure? Is this mission not simply an attempt to  
relinquish the load of guilt you still feel over her?"

Nick shook his head. "I don't think so, no. Whatever wrong I  
did her in the past, it's done. I can't erase it by balancing  
it with good deeds now. All I can do is go on and not repeat my  
mistakes."

'Nicholas, you astonish me. I never thought to hear such  
good sense from your lips." LaCroix added before Nick could  
respond, "though I am at a loss, then, to understand what you  
hope to gain from this expedition."

Nick exhaled slowly. "I'm going because not going doesn't  
seem like an option, LaCroix. That's all."

"And you expect nothing in return."

"You must know by now that I don't think that way." Nick was  
beginning to feel exasperated. "I don't plan every move and  
calculate advantages twenty years from now. I'm not like you."

"I could hardly fail to be aware of that. I gave the best  
part of eight centuries to your training, Nicholas, apparently  
entirely in vain. Had I not washed my hands of you the  
temptation to kill you might at last have overwhelmed me."

"Hardly." This was old territory, and Nick rose and moved  
back to the box of supplies. "If you'd succeeded in making me  
like you I would have bored you. You would have killed me long  
ago." He continued to unpack as he spoke. "In any case, you had  
your chance."

LaCroix was silent for so long Nick wondered if he had lost  
the connection. When he spoke at last his voice was  
uncharacteristically quiet. "Why do you keep it?"

"What?"

"The stake. Why do you still have it?"

Nick looked up at the mantlepiece and the carved wooden  
staff that stood beside it, one of the few items he had brought  
with him from Toronto. Janette had handled it the night before.  
The light dawned. So that was why LaCroix had called.

"Seeing Natalie again won't make me suicidal, LaCroix," he  
said gently. "I keep the stake only as a reminder."

LaCroix' silence was an unspoken question.

"A reminder that I shouldn't succumb to despair," Nick  
continued. "You and she agree, you know. Life is a gift. It  
should never be thrown away."

"She drove you to it once before, Nicholas. Naturally I  
wondered." LaCroix sounded somewhat reassured, despite his  
words.

"You needn't, LaCroix. I won't attempt suicide again, by my  
own hand or another's."

"Which is why you're flying into a tropical war zone, of  
course." The older vampire had recovered his sardonic tone.  
"One more question, Nicholas, if you will humour me so far.  
Have you thought what you will do after the trip?"

"How do you mean?"

"What's your plan? To deliver the man to the good doctor's  
door with a bow around his neck? Or had you not thought even  
that far ahead?"

Nick shrugged. "I don't have any elaborate plans, no. I  
intend to find out what I can, rescue him if he's alive to be  
rescued, and then  " he paused.

"And then?" prompted LaCroix.

"Deliver him with a bow around his neck, I suppose, as you  
say," said Nick, feeling obscurely uncomfortable. "Leave them  
to work out their relationship, and get out of the way."

"As always, your altruism leaves me at a loss for words.  
"LaCroix' even tone gave nothing away. "Enjoy your trip, then.  
And do give me a call when you're next in Paris."

"I will. One thing, Lacroix  " he added as the other  
prepared to hang up. "About your visit to Nat. I trust you  
won't be repeating it."

"I see no need," LaCroix assured him. "My curiosity is  
satisfied. As long as your friend does not resume her research  
for a cure, she need not fear a second appointment."

"What do you care if she does look for a cure?" asked Nick.  
"You don't believe there is one."

"True. But such work would inevitably attract the interest  
of Enforcers, who would not confine their attentions only to  
her. And as I said before, Nicholas, I cannot act as your  
guardian angel forever. Nor am I willing to be dragged down in  
your private catastrophe." He rang off, leaving Nick feeling  
unsettled. How like LaCroix to end a conversation on a veiled  
threat. And he hadn't elaborated on the "disturbing stories",  
either. Was it worth calling him back? No, Nick thought.  
LaCroix had told him as much as he wanted him to know. Nick  
dismissed the question from his mind and turned back to  
unpacking his purchases.

A dozen foil packages lay at the bottom of the box. Nick  
lifted one out to examine it. Vacuum-packed freeze-dried cows'  
blood, just add water. He had got the idea from a truly awful  
film he'd watched with Nat one evening in Toronto, "Taste the  
Blood of Dracula". The plot had pivoted on the existence of the  
freeze-dried blood of Dracula, which, when mixed with water,  
turned the hapless idiot who drank it into Christopher Lee. The  
story had gone downhill from there, but idea had stayed in  
Nick's mind, and he'd found a plant in Marseilles a couple of  
years ago which was willing to try freeze-drying bull's blood  
from the local abattoir. He'd claimed he was experimenting with  
its role in boosting the immune system; in the last decade or  
so that magic phrase would explain almost any dietary  
eccentricity. A package, mixed with a litre of water and shaken  
vigorously, produced a rust-brown liquid that was almost as  
undrinkable as one of Nat's protein shakes. But it did satisfy  
hunger in an emergency, and it was easier to carry than a case  
of bottles.

In another package he found the plane tickets, open return,  
couriered over by his travel agent, along with the other items  
he'd requested. A guidebook to Sierra Leone, distressingly  
slim. He had the impression no one had wanted to stay in Sierra  
Leone long enough to do any detailed research. The best road  
map of Sierra Leone his agent could find; ten years old, but  
perhaps not many new roads had been built in the last decade. A  
pocket phrasebook, English-Krio. Nick leafed through it and  
sighed. It used to be so easy to pick up another language; the  
knowledge could be found in the blood of his victims, and  
practice would make it his own in a few hours or days. Now that  
he no longer drank human blood, although his perfect memory  
made him a quick study, it still took him at least a month to  
be able to converse easily in a new language; three months or  
more before he sounded like a native. He had no time to learn  
more than the basic phrases of Krio before this trip, and hoped  
fervently that it was true that most of the population spoke  
some English. A typed note informed him that a jeep would be  
waiting for him for pickup at Lunghi Airport. Closed-roof, as  
specified.

Finally, in a separate box, an item he had hesitated before  
ordering, and finally decided was a justifiable expense - an  
Ericsson satellite cell phone. He unwrapped and examined it. At  
only twelve ounces, it was a marvel of compact technology. It  
was smaller than the cell phone he had used as a homicide  
detective in Toronto, only ten years before, but it would give  
him a satellite uplink anywhere in the world. He'd decided on  
it once he discovered that not only were ground lines in Sierra  
Leone unreliable, but there was no cell phone coverage outside  
the Freetown area. While the phone charged he called the  
24-hour service to activate his account and global number.

Nick pulled out a soft-sided carry-on bag and stowed his  
purchases, along with a couple of changes of clothes,  
toiletries, and a murder mystery for the airport. Three extra  
bottles of liquid cow's blood went into the bag for the trip;  
an insulated hip flask into one pocket of the tropical-weight  
grey duster he planned to wear on the plane. The phone and  
plane tickets went into the inside pocket of the coat, along  
with the instructions for meeting the MSF plane in Lagos.

All set. He zipped up the bag and poured himself a glass of  
cow's blood from a fresh bottle while he walked into his  
office. Another scan of the web and his email brought him  
nothing new from what sources he had on Sierra Leone. If the  
doctor had been found, alive or dead, no one knew about it yet.  
He sighed. Although he had kept it from LaCroix, he had been  
hoping that his presence in Sierra Leone would be unnecessary.  
Nothing he'd heard so far made it sound like a desirable  
vacation spot. But duty called. He would just have to hope that  
there were community members there whom he could hook up with  
somehow. Otherwise the search could drag on for weeks, and he  
had a strong intuition that speed was essential.

He checked his watch. A couple of hours yet before he needed  
to leave for the airport. Nat would be awake now; he should  
give her the satellite phone number while he thought of it. He  
was conscious of a certain eagerness as he dialled, and was  
unreasonably disappointed when she didn't answer. Where was  
she? Wasn't she supposed to be at home on complete bed rest? A  
small internal voice said irritably that when he was going to  
all this trouble for her, the least she could do was pick up  
the phone. He suppressed the thought and left a message giving  
her the number, in case she needed it. According to the makers,  
she should be able to just dial it plus the country and local  
area codes; he gave her those for Sierra Leone as an  
afterthought. "I hope you're doing okay, Nat," he ended. "I'm  
sure everything will be fine. I'll call you when I have news,  
or in a few days in any case, just to check in."

Which is more than St. Marcus the Wonder Doctor did for you,  
my lady, he thought uncharitably as he hung up. I hope he's  
worth all this. He poured himself another glass of blood and  
took it to the small cast-iron balcony off the living room,  
where he leaned against the railing, drinking with no pleasure  
as he gazed without seeing at the lights of the suburb below.  
He felt surly and out of sorts. Why was he going to Sierra  
Leone, anyway? Why should he care if Nat's ex-boyfriend was  
basted over a slow fire? He'd never met the man, it was nothing  
to him. If he wanted to repay Nat for all she'd tried to do for  
him, surely there were easier ways. He could just underwrite a  
new obstetrics wing for Vancouver hospital. Call it after her  
brother. She'd like that. But no, he had to volunteer to go to  
Sierra Leone.

But he had to admit that it still felt like the right thing  
to do. Or, at least, that the alternative of not going felt  
worse. He just had a hunch that he needed to be there. His lips  
twitched in a smile as he remembered Schanke's reaction to his  
hunches. "Oh God, Nick, not another 'feeeling'. Give me a  
break, partner, I was hoping to make it home for dinner one  
night this week!" Well, Schanke, this one's for you, he  
thought, and raised his glass in a silent toast to his absent  
friend.

As he drained the glass when he heard a buzz from his coat,  
draped over the back of the couch in the living room. He was  
puzzled for an instant, then remembered the cell phone. He  
found himself moving with vampire speed to answer it. "Nat?"

"Oh good, it worked!" said a pleased feminine voice. "Sorry  
I missed your call, I was in the Jacuzzi forgetting my sorrows.  
I heard the ring but I knew I'd never get there in time."

"You have a Jacuzzi? This is life in the lap of luxury!" he  
teased.

She sounded faintly embarrassed. "I had it put in when I  
bought the condo. I always wanted one. It does seem a bit  
decadent, I admit. But I love it."

"But isn't that rather too much stimulation for a pregnant  
lady?"

"Nah. As long as I don't let it get too hot. Though there's  
not much point in a lukewarm hot tub. So when did you get the  
phone?"

"Just today," Nick said. "Glad you gave it a test run. I  
have nothing to report, I'm sorry to say. I'm off to Lagos in a  
few hours. I just wanted to make sure you knew how to get in  
touch with me while I was gone."

"I don't know how to thank you, again," said Natalie. "This  
is so far beyond " She broke off uncertainly.

"Don't even think about it," Nick assured her. "I don't  
expect any trouble. I'll be there and back before you know it.  
And I've always been curious about Africa."

"You've never been?"

"North Africa, South Africa, yes. Nothing in between. This  
will give me a chance to fill in the gap."

"Thanks again anyway, though. It's a lot of trouble to  
take."

"Don't worry about it," Nick said again. "I mean it."

An awkward silence fell. After a moment, they broke it  
simultaneously.

"Well, I should let you get back  " "I'd better go, I  
need to  "

They stopped again. "Are you okay?" Nick asked suddenly.

"I think so," said Nat. In fact he could tell from her voice  
that she was feeling better; she sounded relaxed, not as  
anxious as she had even the day before. "No more bleeding, at  
least. I have another ultrasound in a couple of days. I think  
everything's fine though."

"That's good." They broke off again.

"I better let you finish packing," Nat said at last.

"Yes. Well, I'm pretty much done, but I do have a few things  
to tie up." Nick hesitated. "I'll call you in a few days then,  
just to fill you in."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. If I didn't hear from you I'd  
start to worry," said Nat.

"Okay. Take care." Nick rang off, feeling unaccountably  
awkward. At least Nat was okay, he thought; he didn't need to  
be anxious about her while he was gone. He crossed the room to  
his land line and called to arrange for an airport limo to pick  
him up an hour before sunrise. Then he rummaged through his bag  
for the Krio phrasebook and settled into his reading chair.  
After all, he thought, I may turn out to be the world's only  
Krio-speaking vampire.

  
**§§§**   



	6. Five Years Later: Sierra Leone

_This story is based in the Forever  
Knight universe. I do not own the characters; Sony/Tristar, James Parriott,  
et al. do, and I am grateful for the opportunity to write about them. I might  
be writing about them even faster if I hadn't started watching Buffy the Vampire  
Slayer and become infatuated with Spike, but that's another story  _

 

***

>   
> 
>
>> **It is estimated that over  
>  a million people in the Bo, Kenema and Freetown regions have been displaced  
> by the war. Hope springs eternal, but in a country where there are so many  
> refugees, a bloody civil war, the world's highest infant mortality rate,  
> widespread child prostitution and rampaging sexually transmitted diseases,  
> the outlook for peace and prosperity is grim. It is likely Sierra Leone  
> will be off-limits to tourists for some time.**
>> 
>>  **Lonely Planet World Guide  
>  Online (March 8, 2001)**
> 
>   
> 

***

On his way into the hotel in Freetown  
Nick stumbled over a corpse.

A power outage had cut off the lights  
from the lobby. Nick had been looking away to nod his thanks at the MSF staff  
driver who had picked them up at the plane and dropped him at the hotel. His  
reserved rented jeep had failed to materialize. Predictably, the driver said.  
The desk clerk had probably been offered more by someone else, or the jeep had  
been stolen, or it had never existed in the first place.

He caught his foot on what appeared  
in the dim moonlight to be a pile of rags and felt something soft but solid  
concealed in the mass. The smell of death assailed him as he looked down. He  
had detected it moments before, but discounted it. That smell, the sweetish  
rotting odor of dead flesh, had wafted across his path several times through  
the open windows of the car as they drove into the city. The latest cease-fire  
with the R.U.F. had been broken in less than a week, and the city had not recovered  
from the most recent incursions.

Nick looked back towards the car  
for some assistance, but it had already disappeared around the corner towards  
the Murray Town camp, where the doctor and nurse practitioner team that had  
come in with him from Lagos were staying. He bent over the body and rolled it  
over. A dead man stared up at him, slack-jawed, in his early forties perhaps.  
He was missing several teeth. There were no signs of violence, or at least of  
recent violence, but he was missing an arm from just below the elbow, and the  
opposite leg from above the knee. Both wounds had healed; they hadn't killed  
him, or not directly. He was thin but not to starvation levels. His eyes were  
sunken in his head. There was blood and saliva on the man's hand and chin. Nick's  
nostrils flared. Above the scent of death there was, more faintly, a smell he  
recognized from previous centuries. Bad lungs. Tuberculosis? Was that how he  
had died?

He heard someone approaching and  
straightened up. A young man was coming through the revolving door behind him.  
He was perhaps in his mid-twenties, of medium height, and wore a wine-coloured  
jacket made for a larger frame and frayed around the cuffs, emblazoned "Waverley  
Hotel" over the left pocket. "Mr. Knight?" Nick nodded.

The man came towards him with his  
hand outstretched, saying, "Welcome to Freetown." Nick half raised his hand  
to shake when he realised the other meant to take his bag. He tightened his  
grasp.

"Thanks, I can manage."

The hotel clerk, for that must be  
what he was, came level with Nick and saw the body for the first time. He bent  
over it and grunted more in sympathy than surprise. "Sorry about this," he said  
as he straightened. He motioned Nick to walk around the corpse, ushering him  
towards the door.

Nick hesitated and looked back towards  
the crumpled body. "Isn't there something - "

"It'll be taken care of," said the  
clerk. He gestured again, a bit impatiently, and Nick capitulated and followed  
him into the darkened lobby. A kerosene lamp stood on a battered mahogany desk  
at one end, casting a dim golden light that did not reach far into the room.  
Nick felt oddly at home. It was the first time in almost a century that he had  
found himself in a public building lit by firelight.

His eyes accustomed themselves automatically,  
and he looked around. The lobby was large and had at one time been luxurious.  
There was little furniture left in the hall, and what there was looked worn.  
A huge wooden staircase spiraled up the far wall to a mezzanine. Dull green  
flocked wallpaper covered the walls, faded except in regularly spaced large  
dark rectangles, where paintings must have at one time protected the paper from  
the light. Overhead a huge vaulted stained glass skylight arched over the room.  
In daylight, and in good repair, it must have been magnificent; Nick's night  
vision could make out an intricate multicoloured pattern of interwoven tropical  
birds and plants. Half of the southern end of the skylight was boarded over.  
The clerk followed his gaze upwards and said laconically "mortar attack. Two  
years back."

Nick looked around and saw the other  
man holding out a register to him, open to the days' date. He signed it. "What  
happens to - " he jerked his head back towards the door and the man outside  
it. "Will you call the police?"

"What for?" asked the clerk. "Ben  
was very sick. Nobody expected him to last much longer. His family will be round  
to collect him."

"What was he doing out there then?"

The other man looked surprised.  
"Begging." His tone implied that the answer was obvious. "It's a good location.  
Foreigners like you come here. Or used to."

"But - what did he die of?"

The clerk shrugged. "AIDS. TB. He  
lost an arm and leg a couple of years ago in the RUF attacks. They cut up a  
lot of people. Nobody expected him to survive that. But he hung on to support  
his family."

"You sound like you know him."

"He was married to the day manager's  
cousin," said the clerk. "That's why he used that spot. He knew we wouldn't  
run him off." He went to pick up Nick's bag; Nick retrieved it ahead of him.  
"Here's your key. 206, third off the balcony." He pointed to the corridor leading  
off the mezzanine to the left of the spiral staircase. "How long do you plan  
to stay?"

Nick pocketed the key and got out  
his wallet. "I'm not sure. I'd like to pay for a week in advance, in case I  
\- " he realised that the clerk wasn't listening to his explanation, and simply  
handed over the money.

The clerk scribbled "Pd 1 wk" beside  
his name and shut the register back into the desk drawer. "Anything you need  
be sure to call." Nick began to thank him, but he was already turning back towards  
the hotel entrance, probably intending to deal with the body. Nick gave up and  
headed for the stairs.

The power was off in his room also,  
but a smaller kerosene lantern had been left with a packet of matches on a table  
by the window. Nick set down his luggage and removed his coat, hanging it on  
a hook behind the door. He unzipped the bag and opened a bottle of blood, drinking  
more than half of it before he took his lips away from the cool glass mouth.  
He sat down a shade heavily in the easy chair provided at one corner of the  
room.

It had been a long and wearing day,  
even though he had managed to sleep on the Paris-Lagos leg of the trip. Lagos  
airport had been a chaotic hell, and even with several hours to find it he had  
nearly missed the MSF flight. Not even the airport staff seemed to know where  
it was, and the instructions Guerin had given him seemed to have been written  
for a different airport. It didn't help that he was obviously a foreigner, and  
probably equally obviously lost. Three separate times he had been approached  
by men with broad, friendly smiles, persistently offering their services as  
guides, porters or drivers. As they attempted to distract him, he would be "accidentally"  
jostled from the side or shoved from behind by another man, attempting to pick  
his pocket or steal his bag. He had met such tactics so often in his eight hundred  
years that he evaded these attempts on his luggage and person without undue  
thought. Still, the effort of constant vigilance against such would-be thieves,  
coming as it did at the end of a wearing and mostly sleepless day, did its part  
to fray his temper.

Just before sunset, one young entrepreneur  
had gone too far. Nick had retired to a relatively secluded seat behind a potted  
palm at one end of a corridor, hoping to find a few moments' peace before he  
renewed his attempts to find the MSF cargo flight. He closed his eyes momentarily  
to relax, and was almost immediately jarred back to the world around him by  
an extraordinarily sharp pain in the hand on his bag. His eyes had flicked open  
as he grasped and snapped his attacker's wrist before he even realised clearly  
that he had been stabbed. The thief, a pockmarked, wiry young man in a stained  
tank top and khakis, backed away from Nick, holding his arm and gasping with  
pain.

Nick's patience deserted him. He  
rose and walked towards the youth, keeping his eyes on the other's face as he  
felt and grasped the knife handle protruding from the back of his hand and pulled  
it out with a sharp jerk. Without looking away, Nick snapped the knife blade  
in two between his fingers and threw the pieces on the floor in front of his  
attacker's feet. "Tell your friends not to bother me," he growled. The young  
man nodded, wide-eyed with terror, and ran down the corridor without looking  
back, clutching his wrist to his chest with the other hand.

Nick watched him down the hall.  
His vampire reflexes reacted strongly to fear, anger and pain, and the urge  
to follow the youth and drain him was frightening in its momentary intensity.  
He could feel his eyes beginning to change and willed them back, breathing deeply  
and slowly until he was calm. He resettled himself in the chair, but his peace  
was gone. He felt ashamed of himself. If he hadn't been caught off-guard, he  
would not have broken the boy's wrist. He had just wanted a moment's rest. But  
he should have known better than to take it in his present environment, he thought.  
He should know by now that it was precisely at times like these, when he was  
tired, irritated, off-balance, and hungry, that the vampire required the greatest  
restraint. It was sheer luck that he had only broken the boy's wrist.

Hunger at least he could do something  
about. He looked around cautiously for observers as he pulled out the flask  
in his pocket, then opened and drained half the contents. He immediately felt  
calmer. Over the last few years he had tried paying careful attention to when  
he fed and what effect it had on his mood. He was surprised at how constant  
the correlation was between fits of low patience or low spirits, and a lengthy  
period between feedings. He was much better off drinking a little, a cup or  
so of cow's blood, every few hours, than leaving it a few days and then drinking  
five litres at once, as he had in his hunting days.

In fact the frame of mind which  
had inspired him to hunt he now recognized as extreme hunger, not lust, as his  
Catholic upbringing had induced him to think, or evil. It was much like what  
he suspected hypoglycemics lived with. They too had to eat small quantities  
regularly to maintain their health and their spirits. But his habits of eight  
centuries had been to gorge, then wait days or even weeks until the hunger forced  
him to kill again. He had always, even in the early days, been proud of his  
restraint when he waited as long as he could to feed. It made him feel strong,  
masculine, to ignore his body's new need for blood, just as the Church had taught  
him to ignore his mortal desire for sex, or indeed his appetite for food, on  
fast days. He had come to associate the feeling of hunger, of deprivation, with  
virtue, long before he was a vampire.

It was a hard habit to shake, to  
remind himself that hunger for him now was not virtue but simple stupidity,  
to teach himself that he must remember to feed BEFORE he was starving, before  
the beast raged nearly out of control, before all of his energy was spent keeping  
it on a leash and taking a perverse pride in how long he could last. Until,  
inevitably, his control would break again. And he still found it easy to forget  
to feed, whenever he was distracted, or shaken out of his usual routine, as  
he was today. Sometimes he wondered if he should buy a wrist alarm, to remind  
him to drink every three hours, whether he felt he needed it or not.

He finished the rest of the flask,  
catching sight of an old lady in a colourful headscarf watching him from the  
main hallway as he tilted the last of it into his mouth. His spirits were somewhat  
restored by his meal, and he couldn't resist the urge to wave the flask genially  
in her direction. She looked away, lips pursed disapprovingly, clearly sure  
he was a drunk. My dear, you don't know the half of it, he thought, tucking  
the empty flask back into his coat.

After sunset he had gone outside  
and conducted his own search for the plane, eventually finding it parked at  
an obviously little used terminal across the runways from the main buildings.  
He had slept a little before takeoff, but once they began taxiing the noise  
was so excruciating all hope of further rest was gone. The plane was an overloaded  
Cessna so old he privately doubted its ability to get off the ground in one  
piece. When they at last arrived, rather to his surprise, without incident at  
Lunghi airport, the jeep he'd reserved was missing, and it had taken another  
half-hour to arrange transport into town. Stumbling over a body in the doorway  
of the hotel was the last straw in a very long day.

He finished the bottle and set the  
empty to one side, and rubbed his eyes. He wondered for a moment how he had  
got here. This had started with a simple offer to make a few phone calls in  
Paris to see if he could find out anything about Marcus. Five days later, here  
he was in a blacked-out hotel in Freetown. LaCroix had always said he was too  
impulsive, but the transition was a bit swift even by Nick's usual standards.  


It had seemed like a good idea at  
the time, that he remembered. And he hadn't felt like sitting around in Paris  
doing nothing. He had a sinking feeling now that he'd allowed his usual preference  
for action over inactivity to propel him into this expedition without giving  
it the thought it deserved.

But fatigue, like hunger, always  
dampened his spirits. Perhaps the trip really was a good idea; right now he  
was too tired to say. Whatever his motives for coming, this could still be the  
right place to be. And anyway, he was here now. He shook off his fit of self-doubt  
firmly and stood up, stretching, while he considered his next move.

It was nearly midnight. There was  
no point trying to connect with the MSF search co-ordinator tonight. He would  
try to find him at the hospital tomorrow in the early evening. In the meantime,  
Nick decided, he would scout Freetown for signs of a community, and for any  
other information he could gather. The sooner he began his search, the sooner  
he could leave. He hoped. He pulled aside the drapes and opened a window. It  
faced onto an airshaft. Good; there was less chance he would be observed. He  
stepped out onto the sill and rose into the night air.

***

The immediate area seemed deserted.  
The power outage extended for several blocks on either side of the hotel, and  
no cooking fires or other signs of habitation disrupted the blanket of quiet  
dark that enfolded the buildings. Many buildings were no more than shells, ruined  
by some combination of fire, explosives, rain and neglect. Nick listened and  
watched with a hunter's alertness but detected no sign of squatters or other  
night travellers. He flew silently on, far enough above the city to be detected  
only with difficulty by the naked eye. A mortal who knew where to look and what  
to look for might have caught sight of him. To the peripheral vision of the  
inattentive and night-blind human eye, he would appear merely a fragment of  
cloud, or perhaps a bird of prey, far overhead. A vampire would be able to see  
him, but Nick made no particular effort to avoid detection by one of his own.  
He half-hoped to attract their attention.

A little south of the blackout area  
signs of habitation began. Some streetlights flickered in the narrow lanes,  
and he could hear sounds of voices inside a few buildings. Probably taverns,  
at this hour of the night. He made a mental note of their location in case he  
needed to find one later, and went on. From time to time he alit and walked  
through the silent streets, seeking sight or sound of human or vampire presence.  
Many buildings all over the city seemed in disrepair bombed or burned or otherwise  
damaged and never rebuilt. There were many areas of the city in which he could  
not detect a human heartbeat; they seemed abandoned, whether only by night or  
during the day as well he could not tell. There was a smell of waste and stagnant  
water. Dry grass grew in the breaks in the pavement. Windows were broken or  
missing entirely, and charring on the sides of standing buildings marked, he  
guessed, sites of battles during the ongoing civil war. Nick had seen worse  
devastation in his travels, but not in recent years. And not, he thought, so  
pointlessly. But it was hard to say. For the innocents whose bodies and families  
and lives were caught in the catastrophe, perhaps all wars were pointless.

Farther on he found the MSF refugee  
camp. Even at night, it seemed busy. He flew lower. Hundreds of hearts, some  
sleeping, some waking, beat faintly below him. He could see movement between  
the lean-tos and shacks on the ground. Staff, he supposed, caring for the sick;  
and inhabitants, going about their business. He would come back there to look  
for Dr. Eckhardt in the evening if he could not be found at the hospital. He  
went on and circled over the residential areas of the city.

As he explored he became increasingly  
troubled. Any vampire could sense the presence of another vampire who was a  
part of his own bloodline. Older vampires, like Nick, could sense, more faintly,  
even vampires who were not related to them. After speaking to LaCroix, Nick  
would not have been surprised if he hadn't been able to feel any vampire presence  
at all in Freetown. It wasn't the first time in his travels that he had found  
himself the only vampire in a community, though never before in one this size.  


What he had not been expecting was  
to feel, faintly but with increasing certainty, the presence of a family member.  
The sense was almost imperceptible, but unrelenting. It felt odd, not unpleasant,  
but unusual. No one he had met, he was sure. He finally landed by the docks  
and did his best to concentrate. Was he imagining it? No, it was there. Somewhere  
out there was a vampire of his line. But it wasn't one he knew; of that he was  
equally sure. He took to the air again and tried to refine his sense of the  
other's location, but everywhere in the city felt the same. The strange vampire  
was somewhere below, but muted, expertly masking his presence.

Finally he gave up the search for  
the moment. Besides this unknown relative, he had felt no other vampires in  
his exploration of the city. Perhaps he would find his relative, perhaps not.  
Dawn would come in a little over an hour; it was time to get something to eat  
and sleep for the day. Best to save his bottled supplies for when he couldn't  
forage, he thought reluctantly, for he had seen no large mammals in his travels.  
He steeled himself and landed in a secluded alleyway a couple of blocks from  
the hotel, where he'd spotted a refuse tip on his way out. The subdued squeaking  
his vampire hearing had detected from above silenced at his approach, but the  
rodents scavenging for food in the dump could not disguise their fear-accelerated  
heartbeats. Rats were plentiful in this area of town; Screed would have been  
in heaven here, Nick thought. It was the work of a few moments to catch and  
exsanguinate a dozen. His hunger sated, Nick wiped his hands, soiled by digging  
through the trash heap, fastidiously on his handkerchief and stuffed it back  
in his pocket. He had no objection to rats; he had dined on them countless times  
over the centuries. But digging through garbage to get them was never pleasant.  
Time to get some rest.

***

His sleep was disturbed three times.  
A stray beam of morning sunlight found its way down the air shaft and through  
a worn spot in the curtain onto the carpet. He awoke when it first appeared,  
his instincts ever alert to the faintest gleam of the sun, but the bed was set  
in a shadowed corner of the room, and he was in no danger. He watched the dust  
dance in the ray, feeling oddly comforted by its presence, and eventually drifted  
off again. Around mid-day a strong, but inexplicable, feeling that he was being  
watched caused him to rise, feeling foolish, and look in the closet, under the  
bed, out into the hallway, and finally even to raise a corner of the curtain  
to scan the balcony outside. No one was visible and he finally went back to  
bed, unsatisfied, but too tired to resist slumber any longer. No doubt fatigue  
was the source of the feeling anyway, he thought as he dropped off.

Near sunset, gunfire and screaming  
in the street on the other side of the building jolted him awake for good. He  
rose, slid his feet into his shoes, and ran down into the lobby, tucking his  
shirt into his trousers as he went, to see what had caused the disturbance.  


A group of youths, hardly even adolescent,  
were waving guns and firing them in the air in the street outside. Their faces  
were oddly pockmarked with bandaids. One was shooting out windows in the shops  
and laughing. As Nick came down the stairs, he turned and shot several times  
into the revolving door of the hotel, shattering most of the tinted glass. The  
last rays of sunset spilled through the shattered windows, and Nick dodged around  
them and ducked into the shadowed back of the lobby.

Several youths were running down  
the street, dragging weeping children, none older than perhaps twelve, with  
them. Some men and women, family members, Nick guessed, were following the gang,  
dodging from cover to cover, standing in doorways and behind dumpsters and rusted-out  
hulks of cars, calling and holding out their hands, beseeching the captors.  
As Nick watched, one woman ran out into the center of the street towards the  
group. "Tommy!" she called. "Tommy!"

Nick saw a young boy, perhaps seven,  
look around at her voice. He was wide-eyed and clearly terrified. His captor,  
a gangling youth wearing worn jeans and a stained white T-shirt, his face covered  
with bandaids, jerked the child forward and cuffed him brutally across the face  
with the barrel of his handgun. Then he turned and fired several times towards  
the woman. She screamed and fell, clutching her leg. The boy started to wail  
and the youth struck him again and dragged him up when he staggered and would  
have fallen. The gang of boys and their captives disappeared around the corner,  
firing at random down the street behind them as they turned.

Nick started forward instinctively  
to help, but checked himself; the last rays of the afternoon sun lit the pavement,  
trapping him impotent in the lobby. The woman still lay in the street, her leg  
bent at an awkward angle, bleeding profusely from the thigh. She was trying  
to stem the bleeding with one hand while she dragged herself out of the line  
of fire with the other. She called for help but no one moved until the youths  
disappeared around the corner. Then there was a sudden flurry of activity. Several  
women ran out to her, one ripping off a headscarf to bind her leg, two more  
carrying a board that they laid down on the road beside her to use as a stretcher.  
He could tell even from where he stood that she had lost a lot of blood. Whether  
she survived depended on how soon she received medical assistance.

The desk clerk, the same man who  
had been on the night before, appeared from behind the counter where he had  
taken shelter. "Mr. Knight", he said as if nothing unusual were happening outside.  
"Your jeep arrived." Nick looked at him blankly. "The jeep you reserved from  
the rental agency", he elaborated. "It was delivered this afternoon. It's parked  
around back. Keys at the desk."

So it must have been just a mix-up  
at the agency, Nick thought. I thought I'd reserved it at the airport. He looked  
at the woman outside. She had now been set onto the board stretcher, and was  
still bleeding, despite the scarf wrapped around her upper leg. The last rays  
of sunlight fatally bathed the scene. "Can you drive?" he asked the clerk abruptly.

"Sure."

"Can you bring the jeep around front  
and load that woman into it?" Nick asked, nodding towards the group in the street.  
"I'll get my jacket and drive her to the hospital." He didn't need his jacket;  
he was not sensitive to temperature; but it gave him an excuse to delay for  
a moment until the sun had entirely set.

The clerk nodded. "I'll meet you  
around by the front door in five minutes," he said simply, and turned back to  
the desk for the keys. Nick sprinted up to his room and collected his coat and,  
after a moment's thought, his bag. He found the last of the bottled blood in  
the side pocket of the bag, uncorked and drank it hastily. He didn't know when  
he would next have opportunity to feed. From now on he was reduced to dehydrated  
supplies, and what fauna he encountered in his travels. He rinsed out the bottle  
at the sink - no point frightening housekeeping - and bounded back down the  
stairs.

The last fingers of light had faded  
from the street in the few minutes he had been gone. The jeep was already at  
the door, engine idling. Nick pushed through the revolving door, broken glass  
crackling under his shoes, and slung his bag into the back as he climbed into  
the driver's seat. Two men were lifting the wounded woman into the back. Her  
face was covered with sweat, and her breathing was heavy and rasping. A scarf  
was bound around the wound, already soaked with blood. Another scarf and what  
looked like a shirt splinted her leg to a piece of board. She was whimpering  
in fear or pain.

The desk clerk jumped into the passenger  
seat as Nick closed his door and turned to face the woman. He took her hand  
and began to speak softly to her. His voice seemed to calm her. Without taking  
his eyes from her he said quietly to Nick "First left, second right. I'll direct  
you from there."

"But what about -?" Nick jerked  
his head back towards the hotel.

"You're the first guest in a month."  
The clerk gave the ghost of a smile. "Business has fallen off a bit lately."

Oh. Well, it had certainly been  
quiet, barring the gunfire. "Thanks." Nick put it in gear. The clerk went back  
to his murmured reassurances to the woman. Occasionally he would mutter an instruction  
to Nick when they reached a turn, without removing his attention from his patient.  
Their progress was hampered by the condition of the roads, cratered in mortar  
attacks and not repaired through years of civil war. Nick had driven in worse  
in Vietnam and occupied France, and made the best time he could.

Eventually the woman's whimpering  
subsided and the clerk faced forward in his seat. In the rear view mirror Nick  
could see that the woman had apparently fallen asleep, or passed out. Her breathing  
was heavy and he could hear her pulse slowing and becoming erratic.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Bad," the clerk said briefly. "It's  
not much farther. Turn here. Pull up over at the white building on the right."  
Nick realised as he did so that they had reached the Murray Town camp he had  
flown over the night before. Perhaps he could connect up with Eckhardt while  
he was here.

The clerk had climbed into the back  
of the jeep by the time it rolled to a halt. He picked up the woman with no  
apparent effort; under that jacket there must have been some muscle. "I'll hand  
her down," he said, gesturing with his chin towards the road. Nick jumped down,  
dragging the canvas cover of the jeep aside, and accepted the burden. The woman's  
heart was so weak even he could barely hear it beat. The air was thick with  
the smell of blood, pervasive though not particularly compelling. Good thing  
he'd fed. "Up the stairs, first door on the right", said the clerk, jumping  
down beside him. They set off at a run.

Inside Nick found a clinic. It was  
full of people, with every variety of illness and injury. There were several  
health care workers moving among them, wearing the MSF logo on their sleeves.  
Three of these were European, the first Nick had seen since he had landed the  
night before. When they saw the woman Nick carried two immediately moved to  
intercept them. "Stretcher!" called one, the older of the two women. "Plasma  
drip, now!" she added, catching sight of the blood-sodden scarf around the woman's  
leg.

In moments their patient had been  
bundled onto a gurney, drip in place, and wheeled through the swinging doors  
at the back of the room. Nick waited, expecting someone to want details of the  
injury, and perhaps his name, and hoping to use the moment to inquire after  
Dr. Eckhardt and introduce himself. But no one seemed interested in him. He  
looked around the room. The buzz of urgent activity by the health workers did  
little to lift the pervasive expression of dull weariness, of hope exhausted,  
on the faces of those waiting for care. He guessed that some had been waiting  
for hours, perhaps days. Many had scars or amputated limbs. Others had the drawn  
look of chronic illness. Amid such suffering, no one would have time for a man  
with the appearance of prosperous good health.

He turned to the clerk, who still  
stood beside him. "Is there any reason for us to stay here? Will they need more  
information, our names or anything?"

The other man shrugged. "Maybe.  
If she dies they'll want to know where we got her."

Nick mulled this over. "Perhaps  
I could just give them my name and phone number, or yours, and get out of these  
people's way."

"Phones are out at the hotel."

Damn. No, wait, Nick thought. "I've  
got a satellite phone", he said. "I'll leave that number." He made his way to  
what seemed to be the intake desk, at which sat a thin, harassed woman with  
wide, salt-encrusted dark stains under the arms of her pastel nurse's uniform,  
facing a slowly-moving lineup of intake patients. Nick joined the lineup long  
enough to write his satellite number on the back of his business card, then  
stepped around to the edge of the desk and waited until she looked up for a  
moment.

"I just brought in a patient, a  
shooting victim," he said rapidly while he had her attention. "This card has  
my name and phone number in case you need more information about her. Not that  
I have much," he added with a rueful look, hoping to initiate a sympathetic  
contact.

The woman took the card without  
any change of expression, and set it beside her on the desk. "You're the one  
with Jacob", she said. "From the Waverley. We can find him." She nodded dismissively  
and returned her attention to the next patient.

Nick waited beside the desk until  
she looked up at him again, tapping her pencil impatiently against the edge  
of the desk. Her attitude implied that she had much better things to do than  
chat. He tried his best boyish smile. "I was hoping you could tell me where  
I might find Dr. Eckhardt".

"Not here," she said. "Try the hospital."  
She looked away without a flicker of response. So much for my infallible charm,  
Nick thought as he turned away. He was embarrassed to find that he was a little  
put out. He wasn't used to women who didn't react to him. It had been very helpful  
when he'd been a cop. And earlier, when he'd been a hunter, of course.

He threaded his way through the  
group and returned to the clerk. Jacob, he supposed. "Shall we go?" he said.  
"I'll give you a ride back to the hotel."

Jacob followed him out of the clinic  
and climbed into the jeep beside him. As Nick turned back onto the road he said  
unexpectedly, " you're too blonde".

"I'm sorry?"

"That's why she didn't smile at  
you."

Nick looked at him in surprise,  
too taken aback to reply.

"I saw the look on your face. You  
thought she'd smile. But you're European. You're a stranger. You don't belong  
here."

Nick digested this in silence. If  
her reaction were the norm, his task would be much more difficult. How could  
he interview witnesses if his very appearance made them more guarded? And still  
no sign of a community to whom he could turn for assistance, either. That tantalizing  
sense that a family member was somewhere in the city remained no more than that,  
a faint intuition, and he had so far seen no sign of any other vampires. This  
was beginning to look hopeless.

Jacob sat beside him, quietly alert,  
watching the street ahead and pointing where Nick should turn. He was a very  
restful person to be with, Nick thought idly. Nothing seemed to agitate him,  
and his very calm seemed to quiet those near him. Even the wounded woman had  
found his presence soothing. It was an unusual virtue in a young man; mortals  
were usually much older before they learned to avoid unnecessary movements or  
speech. Perhaps it was a cultural characteristic. He asked a question that had  
been nagging at him.

"Why were those boys wearing bandaids  
on their faces?"

Jacob took a moment to answer, his  
thoughts obviously elsewhere. "The attackers," he said and Nick nodded. " Cocaine  
plasters." He seemed to feel that he'd answered the question, and stopped speaking.

Nick looked at him, puzzled. "What  
are they for?"

"You've never seen this?" Nick's  
expression gave him his answer, and the clerk continued. "The children are forced  
into fighting with drugs, usually. They're forcibly injected with cocaine to  
begin with. Sometimes they're made to kill their own parents or family while  
they're drugged. After that they have no home to return to. And they cannot  
bear their memories. So they stay with the rebels, and are made to commit more  
crimes. The cocaine makes them more willing to fight, to commit crimes. And  
it helps bury the pain of their memories, which every day grow more unbearable,  
as they commit more evil. So their commanders give it to them to make them fight,  
and they take it to ease their pain. Even though their pain will become worse  
because of what they will do while they are drugged."

Nick listened, appalled, and nearly  
overwhelmed himself in the sudden backwash of his own memories. The horrors  
he had committed, while under the compulsion of bloodlust. But not only then.  
He had murdered in hunger, yes; but also in boredom, and in pleasure in his  
own powers, and in anger, and out of desire to impress his master and his vampire  
love. And he had murdered out of greed, and desire, and misery, and finally  
despair, when even the hot rush of self-loathing each new killing brought him  
seemed preferable to the cold emptiness he felt otherwise. He had spent a century  
learning to live in that cold, trying to learn to live with the memories he  
could never lose.

But he had been an adult when Janette  
first came to him. He had had a choice. What monsters would force such horrors  
unwillingly on a ten-year-old child?

Jacob was watching the street and  
continued to speak without apparent emotion. "The children make cuts in their  
faces and rub the cocaine into them, and then put the bandaids over them to  
keep the powder in the wound. They can stay drugged for hours this way. I have  
seen boys commit atrocious acts while they wear the cocaine plasters. But if  
you meet them the next week when they have no drugs, they are normal. Except  
for the pain of their memories of what they have done. The pain overwhelms many."  


Nick glanced across at the other  
man. Jacob's tone was even, his face expressionless. But under the dispassionate  
air, Nick realised, Jacob was deeply, incandescently angry. He wondered if the  
clerk had lost family members to the life he described. Better not to ask.

"It would be better to kill the  
children outright, than to turn them into this," he said instead.

Jacob nodded. "Perhaps. Though alive  
there is still hope they can be salvaged."

Hope, Nick thought. It was not until  
he met Natalie that he had begun to feel the first, painful warm stirrings of  
a hope he knew he did not deserve to feel. His memories of his countless crimes  
told him he deserved nothing but pain. But somehow, since he had known Natalie,  
he had begun to believe that something better than this was nevertheless possible,  
even for him. Even if she couldn't find a cure, she had helped him regain some  
fraction of the humanity he had lost or forgotten in the last eight centuries.  
Even her brush with death at his hands had helped him. His despair after that  
night had led him at last to confront his true condition, and finally, painfully,  
begin to find ways to come to terms with it, and live at peace with himself.  
Ever since then he had felt somehow that though the path might be a long one,  
he was on the right track.

What a lot he owed Natalie, he thought.  
Her faith that there was hope even for him had set him on the way to regain  
his soul. But it had taken eight hundred years for him to find her. How much  
hope did these children have? Most of them would never see the age of thirty.

"How is there hope for them?" he  
asked. "How can anyone recover from that?"

"It is very hard," Jacob agreed.  
"And there are few to help them. Those who can, do what they can do. "

Nick nodded, absorbed in the clerk's  
words. He had no doubt that Jacob was one of those who did what he could to  
help these poor corrupted innocents. He wondered if there was some way he could  
assist in the effort. Perhaps the deBrabant Foundation could look into it. Lost  
in thought, he did not answer the clerk, and they continued driving in silence.  


The streets were now pitch-black  
in the tropical dark that drops abruptly after sunset. Nick didn't need the  
headlights, but switched them on to warn others of the jeep's presence. And  
so Jacob wouldn't ask why he hadn't. Yet another of the necessary subterfuges  
that had become second nature to him over the years, and required no conscious  
thought.

As they neared the hotel, Jacob  
turned his head.

"Why are you here, Mr. Knight?"

"I'm sorry?" Nick collected his  
thoughts rapidly and wondered what to tell him.

"Why are you here?" Jacob said again.  


Nick thought quickly. Jacob could  
perhaps be some use, especially since he'd found no vampire assistance so far.  
But Dr. Guerin had been quite insistent that Nick keep the search for Marcus  
a secret. And Jacob was an unknown quantity. In fact there was something a bit  
disturbing about him. Nick couldn't put his finger on what it was. He couldn't  
read the younger man, was the problem; and his eight centuries of practice had  
made him a good reader of mortals. Perhaps it was the cultural difference. But  
it meant that he couldn't tell if he could trust Jacob. Better to err on the  
safe side, he decided reluctantly.

"I represent a charitable foundation,"  
he said, sticking to his cover story. "I'm here to look at the operations run  
by Doctors Without Borders in Sierra Leone, to decide if our institution will  
fund them."

Nick could feel the other man's  
speculative look, but didn't turn his head. "They do good work," said Jacob  
at last, facing forward again. "Let me know if I can help you with anything,  
or if there's any information you need. I've been around here awhile." He glanced  
at Nick again, as if assessing his reaction.

It almost sounded as if he knew  
why Nick was in Freetown, and was offering to help. Nick nearly succumbed and  
told Jacob the whole story. But he remembered Guerin's caution, and held his  
tongue. "Thank you," he said. "I'll remember that," and privately resolved that  
if other options failed to materialize, he would return to Jacob.

Jacob nodded and fumbled in his  
pocket, pulling out a pen and scribbling on the back of a card. "Here's the  
hotel number. Mine's on the back. The phones go in and out." Nick took the card  
with muttered thanks and tucked it into his jacket.

The other man nodded to the street  
ahead of them. "You can turn right here and let me off at the corner," he said.  
"We're a block from the hotel, I can walk. Carry on straight for a mile, turn  
left at the first lights - they're not working but you'll see them - and the  
hospital is three blocks away on your right."

Nick slowed to let Jacob out. "How  
did you - " he began. He hadn't mentioned that he wanted to find the hospital.

"I heard the nurse", Jacob said.  
"Thanks for the lift." He jumped out and tapped the side of the jeep. "Good  
luck." Nick saw him in the rearview mirror watching the jeep as it set off through  
the dark.

***

He parked his jeep outside the hospital  
and approached the reception desk inside the rotunda. No one sat there, and  
he began looking around for someone to direct him. Just as he reached the desk,  
a short, rounded woman wearing a short-sleeved pale blue shirt with the MSF  
crest on one sleeve straightened up from behind the counter, holding a box of  
files. She was European, a fair-skinned redhead, and he wondered how she dealt  
with the tropical sun. She assessed him with a quick glance and set down the  
box.

"You're Nicholas Knight?" He nodded,  
surprised, and she held out her hand. "Dr. Carmela Enkin. We were expecting  
you earlier."

"I'm sorry. I have a sun allergy,  
I had to wait until sunset to - " Nick began before she cut him off.

"A sun allergy?" she said incredulously.  
"I thought you were here to help! And you can't even go out in daylight?" She  
tucked the box under one arm as she turned away from him.

"I can do other - "Nick began only  
to be cut off again.

"Don't tell me, tell Willem." She  
set off down the hallway beside the desk, saying over her shoulder "I'll take  
you to him." He followed her meekly. This was the second woman in less than  
an hour who had seemed less than impressed with him. And Natalie hadn't fallen  
on his neck with tears of joy either. Was he beginning to lose his touch?

She walked quickly ahead of him,  
her crepe-soled shoes sticking slightly on the scuffed linoleum. Two sets of  
swinging doors and numerous turns later, she opened a half-glass side door,  
gesturing with her head to follow her into the small office beyond it. "Willem,  
the deBrabant Foundation guy is here", she said as she walked in ahead of him;  
Nick's vampire hearing picked up her sotto voce comment, "he has a sun allergy,  
can you believe it? God knows what he thinks he can ... " stopping abruptly  
as he rounded the door. Her head was bent close to the older man behind the  
desk, but as Nick entered their heads bobbed up to confront him. The man stood  
and offered his hand.

"Nicholas Knight? I'm Willem Eckhardt."  
Nick took his hand and shook it, then looked at him more closely. Eckhardt's  
hand was moist and colder than his own, and his face was gray with fatigue.  
The man was exhausted.

Worse than exhausted, Nick realised  
on further examination. Eckhardt was on the verge of collapse. Nick had taken  
him at first glance for a man in his fifties, but he was no more than thirty-five.  
The lines in his face were deep and shadowed, and his whole body seemed to sag.  
Nick saw that it was only with effort that Eckhardt didn't sway where he stood.  
His heartbeat was sluggish. His clothes, Nick's nose informed him, had not been  
changed for days. Several mugs stood on the desk, some still half-full of cold,  
skinned coffee. Eckhardt looked as if he hadn't slept since his wife had vanished.  
He probably hadn't even left this room.

"I'm here to help," said Nick immediately.  
"What can I do?"

"Well, what *can* you do?" asked  
Eckhardt. He looked around the room a bit helplessly. Dr. Enkin looked at him  
under her lashes with a mix of pity and exasperation.

"He hasn't slept since Anneliese  
was kidnapped," she said, confirming Nick's suspicion. "As if staying awake  
will help to find her."

"I can't sleep anyway," muttered  
Eckhardt, sitting down again heavily. "I may as well be doing something. Please  
\- " he gestured vaguely towards the only other chair in the room.

Nick removed a box of files from  
the chair and sat down, balancing the box on his lap.

"Well, what are you doing now?"  
he said. "Are these files connected to the doctors' disappearance?"

Eckhardt rubbed his eyes, apparently  
gathering the energy to speak. Dr. Enkin filled in as he hesitated.

"These are the files of patients  
and former patients of ours whom we knew were members of the R.U.F. or former  
members, or who were known to have R.U.F. family members. We pulled them a couple  
of days ago. We're sorting them by location. We're trying to find any that come  
from near Magburaka, where the clinic was, or Yele, which is the next closest  
city. We hoped they might know something about where our people were taken."

"You don't have this on computer?"  
The look on her face gave him his answer. Nick began to leaf through the files.  
It looked like a hopeless task. Half of the ones he held didn't have any home  
address recorded, and the addresses of the rest were noted incompletely and  
haphazardly, rarely at the same place in the file. Extracting the addresses  
meant looking through the whole file every time, an enormously time-consuming  
process. And then they wouldn't have by any means all the R.U.F. members, either;  
just the ones they thought they knew about.

He didn't recognize the names of  
any of the towns he saw. He had no idea which ones were significant. So he'd  
be no use in sorting this mess, he realised thankfully. Paper work. He hadn't  
resigned from the police only to reprise the worst part of the job. Nick looked  
up to the box Dr. Enkin had brought in from the lobby as he arrived.

"And those are?"

"The names we've found so far. So  
far we've been trying to find people from Magburaka who are now in Freetown,  
and hit them up for information. That's this box." She patted the files she  
had set down on the desk corner as she entered the office.

"Any luck so far?"

She shook her head. "Can't find  
them, or they won't talk. We have a stack more to look through though. And that's  
just in Freetown."

Nick had doubts about how much information  
their method would uncover. Even if they could find informants in Freetown,  
who knew if they would still have ties inland? It was hardly the most direct  
approach. These were intelligent people, but they hadn't much notion of detective  
work.

"Have you got any potential contacts  
still in Magburaka? That might be quicker," he said.

Dr. Enkin flicked her gaze at a  
smaller pile of files on the table beside him. "That lot over there. There are  
about a dozen. We'd got those just a week before the bombing, from the vaccination  
clinic Marcus was running. We haven't checked them out yet."

Nick was beginning to share the  
exasperation she clearly felt towards the hapless Dr. Eckhardt. "But surely  
their information would be more up to date?" he asked.

Dr. Enkin nodded. "The road up to  
Magburaka is quite dangerous", she said. "It's become worse in the last week.  
There's a lot of rebel movement in the area. We didn't want to lose anyone else,  
so we thought we'd try Freetown first." She carefully did not look at Eckhardt.  
It must have been his call, thought Nick. A noble stand, refusing to risk any  
of his colleagues even to save his wife; but a poor decision.

Nick rose. "It looks as if we've  
found something I can do," he said. "I'll go up to Magburaka and interview your  
former patients." He picked up the files as he spoke. "I'll need a map," he  
added. "And it would help if you'd tell me what exactly you want to know."

Eckhardt spoke for the first time  
since he'd greeted Nick. "You can't go," he said. "It's too dangerous."

"I'm expendable," said Nick. "And  
I have combat experience." More than you want to know about.

Eckhardt shook his head stubbornly.  
"I can't let you risk yourself. We can't let more people die."

He was seriously traumatized by  
the bombing, Nick realised. What idiot had put him in charge of the rescue effort?  
He must have been a senior administrator already, and nobody had had the heart  
to challenge him. Or perhaps no one else wanted the job. "You're not in a position  
to stop me," he pointed out. "I'm not under your authority."

Eckhardt looked exhausted but mulish,  
and poised to continue to argue. Nick sighed. "Look. I know I don't know the  
area, but I'm still your best choice for the job. I've been in hostile environments  
before. I speak a little Krio." A very little, he did not add. "I have experience  
in interviewing - people." He had nearly said "suspects", but was pretty sure  
Eckhardt would be nervous about Nick's police background. "So just give me a  
map and I'll be on my way." When Eckhardt didn't move, Nick prodded as gently  
as he could. "It's been nearly a week since the clinic was bombed. The sooner  
someone gets up there, the better."

Eckhardt didn't respond for a long  
moment. Finally he nodded faintly. "I'll give you a map", he said. "But how  
will you get there? We don't have enough vehicles to lend you one."

"I have a jeep."

"And what about your sun allergy?"

"I'll stay out of the sun," Nick  
said. "I have lots of practice. People are more willing to talk in the evening  
anyway."

Eckhardt seemed to sag a little  
in his chair, as if relinquishing some small portion of control over the search  
allowed him to feel how exhausted he really was. He nodded. "I appreciate this,"  
he said.

I'm sure you do, Nick thought. You've  
never lived through a war; you haven't had any experience of ordering people  
into mortal danger. It's much easier if they volunteer. "I'll do the best I  
can. What is it you want to know?" he asked again.

"We want to know where the bastards  
took my wife and Marcus", Eckhardt said with more force than he had shown so  
far. Dr. Enkin glanced at him in surprise. Apparently even mild profanity was  
unusual from her colleague.

"I'll do my best," said Nick again.  
"Is there a way I can reach you?"

"I'll give you the hospital switchboard  
number," said Eckhardt, rummaging through his desk drawer as he spoke and coming  
up with a business card and a dog-eared map of Sierra Leone, which he handed  
over. "But it probably won't do you much good. The phones up there are out half  
the time."

"I have a - "

"There's no cell phone coverage  
outside Freetown," Dr. Enkin broke in.

"It's a satellite phone," said Nick.  
"I'll give you the number, in case you come up with more contact names for me.  
Or need to talk to me for any other reason." He wrote the number on a stray  
piece of paper and passed it over. "Is there anything else?"

There was a brief silence.

"Then I'll call you when I have  
any news," he said.

"Better if you reported in at the  
same hour every day," said Eckhardt unexpectedly. "That way we'll know if something's  
happened to you." He added with the shade of an embarrassed grin, "I got the  
idea out of a leCarre novel."

Nick nodded. 'I'll call in at 8  
p.m. every day," he said. "I hope with good news, shortly."

"I hope so too, Mr. Knight," said  
Eckhardt. "I really hope so." He looked desperately discouraged and sad.

Nick could think of no reassurance  
to offer. "I'll do my best," he said again. He considered the man before him.  
One thing he could do, he thought, and looked Eckhardt directly in the eye.  
"Dr. Eckhardt?" he said gently, seductively. "Once I'm gone, get some sleep."

Eckhardt blinked, seeming a bit  
confused.

"Get some sleep," Nick said again,  
maintaining his gaze and tone, listening as the other's heartbeat slowed and  
calmed.

Eckhardt nodded. "I'm ... tired,"  
he said slowly. "Think I'll lie down for a bit."

"Come on, Willem, let's get you  
to a cot," said Dr. Enkin. She came forward to take Eckhardt's arm, looking  
up at Nick curiously as she passed. "Thanks", she murmured quietly.

Nick waved the files and smiled,  
deliberately misunderstanding. "That's why I'm here, Dr. Enkin."

***

Three hours later Nick was fairly  
sure he was lost. He had managed to find the route down through the mountains  
out of Freetown, and had turned the right way at the Waterloo fork when he reached  
the inland plain; but if this was the main road to Masiaka, the situation in  
Sierra Leone was even worse than he'd thought.

He listened to the engine pinging  
as it cooled in the warm night air. He had pulled off to the side of the one-lane  
dirt track when he could no longer convince himself that this just a bad patch  
on the road to Magburaka. His route had started out as a paved road, degenerated  
to gravel, and for the last ten miles or more it had been a gradually narrowing  
potholed lane meandering through forests and fields. He had hoped at first that  
the road would improve again, and then that it would at least encounter a better  
road eventually if he stayed on long enough.

He had been travelling for three  
hours already, and Magburaka was only 120 miles from Freetown. He should at  
least be seeing some sign of human habitation by now. There were at least two  
fairly well-populated cities on the way, according to the map, Masiaka and Masuri.  
He should have passed at least one of them. He must have taken a wrong turning  
outside Waterloo.

He studied the map in the dim light  
cast by the setting half-moon. It hadn't enough detail to be useful, but he  
suspected he was somewhere south of the road, on one of the unmapped tracks  
that served the farms in the district. He stuffed it back in the glove box and  
leaned back in his seat, considering. Feed, then reconnoiter, he decided. He  
sat without moving or breathing and listened to the night.

Around him the forest, silent at  
first at his advent, was beginning to revive. Night birds and insects began  
a subdued chatter in the trees around him. Some rustling betrayed the presence  
of small mammals in the undergrowth. He took note of their presence but continued  
to wait. He hadn't come all the way to Africa to feed on chipmunks, at least,  
not if he could help it.

Ahead of him to the right he heard  
a faint rustle, then the sound of grass being crushed under a heavier animal.  
At last. He turned his head silently. Something very like a stunted deer was  
silhouetted faintly against the night sky in a clump of trees partway down the  
road. The deer was looking at the jeep. He did not move, and shut his eyes so  
they would not shine in the moonlight. After an age there was another faint  
rustle, and then the quiet sound of teeth tearing through tough grass fibers.  
The deer had decided he was no threat. He waited, eyes shut, a moment longer.  
He could feel his throat dry and his fangs tingle with anticipation. He strained  
to hear the deer's heartbeat. It slowed as the animal grazed; clearly she felt  
secure. It was the moment.

Without any warning Nick levitated  
from his seat and swooped down on the animal. She had time to look up, startled,  
and begin to twist away before Nick was upon her, one arm wrenching her neck  
back so he could imbed his fangs in the soft underside, just beside the jaw.  
Hot, sweet blood spurted into his eager mouth, slowing as the deer's heartbeat  
slowed. It was delicious. Not human, but still delightful; warm, vivid, and  
full of pulsing life. This was more like it! The best bottled goods would never  
match fresh blood.

The stream trickled to a halt as  
the deer died under him, and Nick laid the body gently down in the grass. Her  
dimmed black eyes looked uncomprehending up at the night, and Nick closed them  
for her, ashamed now of the pleasure he had taken in her death. Perhaps he should  
have tried to stop sooner. But taking only enough to weaken her would still  
have been a death sentence in the world of predators that surrounded her. He  
was just the lucky one who had caught her. And in any case, he thought firmly,  
whatever Nat had believed, a vegetarian vampire was a contradiction in terms.  
A vampire that wasn't a serial murderer was the best that could be hoped for  
until there was a cure.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve  
and leaped upwards into the treetops and above, high into the night sky. The  
rush of warm night air above the trees surrounded him in an exhilarating flood  
of unfamiliar scents and sounds. He realised he was enjoying himself. The African  
night was a thing of beauty, a pleasure to all his vampire-enhanced senses.  
Why had he never visited before? He hovered for a moment, basking in the fragrant  
darkness. And then he felt it again. That faint, troubling sense of kinship.  
There was another vampire somewhere - near? This time there was a direction;  
back to the northeast, towards Freetown. He would surely not be able to sense  
a vampire as far away as Freetown itself. That must be thirty miles or more,  
and through mountains. Was it another vampire? Was he being followed? He hovered  
motionless, his eyes closed, trying to sense more clearly, but he could gather  
nothing more. The sense began to irritate him finally, and he decided to ignore  
it. If the other vampire wanted to introduce himself, fine; in the meantime  
he had other things to do.

He opened his eyes and addressed  
his attention to the work at hand. Turning in the air, he scanned the horizon,  
looking for lights, fires, or any sign of human habitation. Some distance to  
the northwest he saw a faint glow; a village, perhaps, though not a large one.  
At least he was headed in the right direction, then. He went a little higher  
and looked for signs of a main road. A black ribbon running north-south lay  
to the west also. Road or river? As he watched, a faint pair of headlights came  
into view and began to travel down it. Road.

He dropped back to the jeep and  
consulted the map again. His best bet seemed to be to continue down the lane  
and hope it connected with the main road he'd seen, then follow that north to  
the connecting road, then go west to Magburaka. He hoped. He still had a few  
hours until dawn, but if the rest of the trip took as long as the first part  
had he would have to break at Masiaka and rest there for the day. He set the  
jeep into gear and started out again.

In the end he was lucky to reach  
Masiaka an hour before dawn. The lane had petered out into a grassy track, then  
vanished altogether, and Nick had had to go overland, relying on his sense of  
direction alone to find the north road. Three times he had had to make wide  
detours to avoid water-eroded gullies with steep, crumbling sides, for fear  
the jeep would overturn or the bank fall in as he traversed it. He saw the lights  
of farmhouses in the distance once or twice, but no other signs of habitation.  


When he finally reached the road,  
more by luck than navigational skill, he met no other cars on it the entire  
way to Masiaka. The town itself seemed deserted; there was no one on the streets,  
no light in the windows. His was the only moving vehicle he saw. Many windows  
were broken, some boarded up again, some with glass still scattered in the street  
before the window, mute evidence of recent violence. He found no hotels, motels,  
inns, or B&Bs open for business. He skirted the town once more, looking  
in vain for an all-night grocer or gas station that could perhaps direct him  
to accommodation of some kind. Most of the few shops he saw were not only closed  
but barren, their dark, empty windows yawning cavernously onto the road, fragments  
of curtains flapping outside in the wind, unrestrained by glass. The shelves  
inside were empty or missing entirely, chopped up for firewood perhaps. There  
was no one on the streets to direct him. He suspected they were cowering in  
their homes, avoiding danger as much as one could in this place. The scene reminded  
him of the villages of Europe, before streetlights, before regular police forces,  
when good citizens stayed home after dark, and the night was the province of  
criminals, prowlers, thieves, raiders, evildoers generally. And those like Nick  
himself, of course. One of the few comforts he had been able to take over the  
years was that much of the blood he had spilled was far from innocent. So many  
of those he had encountered in the night in those days were only slightly less  
dangerous than he, and with considerably less excuse.

But Masiaka was worse even than  
the Europe of his past. The thieves and criminals were hiding tonight. Something  
out there frightened even them.

After half an hour of fruitless  
searching, he accepted that he would have to find his own resting place for  
the day. His old skills took over now, and he continued automatically out of  
town, looking for somewhere on the outskirts, either a deep patch of forest  
or a deserted building. It was dangerous for a travelling vampire to bed down  
in an unknown city for the day; the sheer number of people around him increased  
the chance of discovery and exposure. If worst came to worst, he could conceal  
the jeep off the road and sleep under it, he thought, though that was certainly  
not his first choice. The eastern sky was looking decidedly lighter before he  
saw the ideal spot - an abandoned church, some distance off the road, behind  
a clump of trees. Its roof had partly fallen in, and the tracks around it were  
overgrown with grass. Two of the windows were boarded up; the third had no glass.  
It seemed unlikely that it had been in use, or even visited, for years. Perfect.  


He pulled the jeep behind it and  
threw the canvas roof and camouflage net over the top, grabbed his bag out of  
the back and pushed his way past the front door, hanging now by one hinge. The  
tang of 'holiness' inside was faint; he felt no more than a minor nagging sense  
of discomfort. The church must have been deserted for some time. Even better.  
He had taken refuge in church basements more than once in his career, but the  
ones still in use gave him disturbing dreams. This one, he hoped, had been abandoned  
long enough to let him sleep.

He looked around the church and  
saw a problem. The roof had fallen in by the door, and the plywood had been  
pried off the windows toward the front. As the sun passed overhead, there would  
be no place in the church that was not in direct sunlight at one point or another  
during the day. He could move around as the day progressed, but that would make  
for a disturbed rest, and he suspected he would need all the sleep he could  
get. Was there a basement? He walked down the side corridor and behind the former  
altar. He saw no sign of a staircase, or of a door that might lead to one.

As he made his way back an irregularity  
in the floor before the altar caught his eye, and he crossed over to inspect  
it. There was a handle inset in the floor. When he pulled up on it, a section  
of flooring came with it to reveal a square hole about as long as he was tall  
and perhaps half as deep. Steps led down to the bottom from one side. There  
was nothing in the cavity, no clue to its purpose. What on earth? Perhaps it  
had been built to conceal fugitives from rebel forces, he thought. Though the  
steps were puzzling, and it wasn't really deep enough. But all that mattered  
now was that he had found his resting-spot for the day. And none too soon -  
he could sense the first rays of the rising sun breaking over the horizon.

He dropped his bag into the hole  
and jumped down beside it, pulling the section of flooring down after him to  
cover. He kicked the bag to one end to use as a pillow and got as comfortable  
as he could before sleep overtook him.

***

He was swimming. No, he was trying  
to swim, but the water stung him. It was - hot. But that shouldn't hurt? It  
was full of light. The sun was up, that was it, the rays of the sun were burning  
him even through the water. He swam downwards to escape the light, but it didn't  
work, the water was still full of light and it hurt. He could feel it prickling  
all over his skin. He swam down and down. He was scared and forgot he didn't  
have to breathe, and inhaled a noseful of water. It burned into his lungs. He  
gasped in pain and swallowed a mouthful. Now his stomach burned. He hurt inside  
and out. He was afraid.

And then it didn't hurt anymore.  
It didn't hurt at all, it was just pleasantly warm, and his fear melted away.  
But he was very tired now from struggling, too tired to swim anymore. He stopped  
and began floating slowly to the surface again, where the sun was waiting to  
burn him. But he had no strength left to resist. His limbs were leaden. He couldn't  
move. He floated slowly upwards, passive and oddly peaceful, prepared for death.

***

Nick was floating in two feet of  
water when he awoke. He sat up abruptly, nearly striking his head on the floor  
above him. Outside he could hear rain falling gently on what was left of the  
roof, and dimly remembered hearing it pounding down earlier. He was soaking  
wet. The sensation of sodden clothing was unpleasant but the water itself, oddly,  
was not. It felt warm and pleasant against his skin. He sat for a moment and  
waited until his head cleared. There was no point spending the day up to his  
waist in water. He would have to find refuge elsewhere in the church until the  
sun went down. He pushed up on the lid and began to climb out.

A ray of sunlight broke through  
the clouds and struck the floor directly in front of him. He could feel it through  
the floorboards over his head. The entire front floor of the church must be  
illuminated. Wonderful. He let the lid settle back down above him and sat back  
into the water. Where was the flood coming from anyway? Wasn't the lid watertight?  
He felt around the edges; they were dry. Perhaps it was flooding up from the  
foundation? He felt around the floor, searching for cracks. Not that he supposed  
it mattered. He felt none, but a pipe entered from one wall, angling down, on  
his left by the stairs. A drain-pipe. The rainwater from the roof was being  
collected and drained into his refuge. Was he in a rain-water cistern? He'd  
certainly taken refuge in worse places over the years if he was.

Then the answer came to him, and  
Nick started in terror, his heart thumping several times. He leaped up and pushed  
the lid out of the way in a single motion, holding it over him to hide him from  
the sun's rays as he jumped from the cavity and ran for the protection of the  
shadows in the side aisle. A concrete tank in front of an altar. Filled by rainwater.  
With steps leading down into it. In a church. A CHURCH.

It was a full-immersion baptismal  
font. He'd spent the day in a baptismal font. In water. In a church.

He calmed down slowly, sliding down  
beside a pew and leaning against it, with the lid of the font propped up beside  
him to shield him from the sun's encroaching rays as the sky cleared. Why was  
he alive? He must have been in there for hours. Long enough for the water to  
reach half-way up the sides of the tank. He'd spent hours immersed in holy water.  
He was sure he had inhaled and swallowed some while thrashing around, too; or  
so his dream suggested. Why hadn't he just boiled away?

But he was alive, he thought as  
the fear began to recede. It couldn't have been holy water. The church must  
have been deconsecrated. Or the residual blessing on the font hadn't been enough  
to make the water lethal to him. Or - there was no point worrying about it.  
He was alive. He closed his eyes in relief, sagging against the side of the  
pew.

He was exhausted. Also soaking wet  
and hungry. The sun had gone back under a cloud and he made his way cautiously  
back to the font, armed with a piece of plank fallen from one of the pews, which  
he used to fish in the water for the handle of his bag. Now was certainly the  
time to see if it was really waterproof.

He brought the bag back to the side  
aisle and opened it up. The items on top were slightly damp, but everything  
underneath seemed dry. He sorted through the contents for fresh clothes. The  
SPF 100 bicycle shorts and shirt were dry enough to pull on as an underlayer;  
his spare trousers and an only slightly dampened shirt went over top. No dry  
socks. He hated wet socks. But under the circumstances, he'd just be grateful  
that wet socks were the worst of his problems. He draped his coat across the  
back of a pew and hoped it would dry out some before evening.

He cast a thoughtful eye at the  
position of the sun and smeared a layer of sunblock on his exposed skin. He  
might have to run across a sunlit patch inside the church if the clouds dissipated  
completely before the sun went down. Sunscreen wouldn't save him from prolonged  
exposure, but it would lessen the pain of a short sprint past an open window.  


And now for dinner. He leaned back  
against the pillar, safe in the shade, and closed his eyes while he listened  
for the sounds of animal life. Surely the church had a rat population? He remained  
motionless for ten minutes or more, to give the rodents time to forget he was  
there and begin to move around. He heard nothing. He gave it a few minutes more,  
then opened his eyes and sat up. This was not turning into a good day. Resigned  
to the inevitable, he rooted around in the bag and pulled out a package of freeze-dried  
bull's blood and his hip flask. He ripped open a corner of the package, unscrewed  
the lid of the flask, and tapped the dried blood powder into the small opening,  
taking care not to spill any to either side.

The precision of his own movements  
reminded him of what he had seen of heroin addicts fixing in Paris in the forties.  
He suppressed the thought and the depression it brought with it. Perhaps Nat  
was right, and he was an addict, but for now, blood was the only thing that  
seemed to work.

He looked around the church, but  
saw no other water source, and headed back to the baptismal pool, skirting a  
few stray rays of sun through broken windows on the way. The idea of drinking  
from a baptismal font still made him shudder, but any damage it could do him  
was surely already done. He used the flask's cup as a dipper and filled it to  
the neck, screwed the top on and shook vigorously. Then he unscrewed the cap,  
braced himself, and drank the mixture down.

It was foul. It was worse than foul.  
He'd take a protein shake any day. Tears streamed from his eyes as Nick tried  
not to retch, and he wiped them away with his free hand. Next time he'd look  
harder for rats.

At least he no longer felt hungry.  
After sunset he would do a little hunting before setting out again. He crossed  
back to his seat in the shadow by the pillar and settled down. It was still  
an hour or so until sunset. Nat would probably be awake by now.

He looked around to the pew behind  
him where his coat hung, sodden and steaming gently in the late afternoon warmth.  
It wasn't anywhere near the rainy season, he thought as he watched water bead  
on the coat's hem and drip on the floor below. Where had that storm come from?  
Global warming, probably. It wouldn't make the roads any easier to manage, either.  
He pulled the coat towards him and rooted through the pockets for the phone.  
He had nothing to tell Nat, but she might like to know he was still alive. Assuming  
she cared.

He found the phone and pulled it  
out of the soggy cloth that encased it, thumbing the power button. There was  
a faint hiss, then nothing. He tried again. Nothing at all this time. No lights,  
no sign of life. It wasn't waterproof. Great. This was really all he needed.  
He turned it off, not that it made any difference, and set it down on the bench.  
He used his foot to nudge the phone into a pool of late afternoon sunlight at  
the other end of the pew. Maybe it would work when it dried out.

Then he leaned forward, head in  
his hands, and closed his eyes. He thought clearly, as if hearing his own voice  
speaking, what am I doing here?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose,  
then his forehead. He felt tired. Worse, he felt stupid. He had sauntered arrogantly  
into a situation he knew nothing about. And now here he was trapped in a bombed-out  
church, two days wasted already, no phone, no support, no real idea how long  
it would take him to get to Magburaka or if it would even do any good to go.  
He might not be able to get there at all. The storm had probably washed out  
the roads. He could fly, but he would need the jeep to get the doctor back.  
If he was alive.

And if he even wanted the doctor  
alive. That was the other thing. If he was being honest with himself. How did  
he really feel about this? About Nat setting up life happily with some other  
man while he watched from the sidelines, tipped his hat, and strolled into the  
night like Sam Spade? No problem ma'am, just doing my job, as he lights his  
cigarette and recedes into the shadows, standing on the platform watching Nat's  
train pull out ... He examined his feelings for another moment, and put them  
away. It would be the best thing for her. He had no place in her life. Nat deserved  
more than he could give her. He would feel lucky if they could become friends  
again, he told himself firmly, and would not ask for anything more.

He stood up, straightening against  
the pillar, and stretched. Introspection always made him morose. Time to do  
something. Go through the files he'd taken with him, perhaps, and see what useful  
information he could glean. He sidled along the north wall of the church, avoiding  
the light. The habit of long practice had led him to park the jeep on the north  
side of the church towards the eastern end. As the sun dropped in the southwest  
the jeep lay under the protection of the long shadows cast by the broken church  
walls. Nick looked out a broken window near the vehicle. The canvas roof and  
camouflage net had stayed on, and by some miracle he'd remembered to roll up  
the windows. It was probably dry inside. And a lot more comfortable than the  
concrete floor of the church.

He turned back to collect his bag  
and coat and vaulted out the window closest to the jeep, throwing his things  
in the back as he opened the door. He settled himself into the thinly-padded  
vinyl-covered driver's seat and stretched his legs out under the pedals. Bliss.  
It might not be luxury but it was certainly better than a baptismal font.

As the sun disappeared under the  
horizon Nick finished reading, with a mounting sense of frustration. Somehow  
he had assumed that the files would contain the same wealth of information he  
would have found in a Toronto police file. Not just name and address, but prior  
addresses, known associates, previous convictions, favourite hangouts, names  
and addresses of relatives, suspected affiliations - things he could go on.  
But all the work was still to do. These were primarily medical files. The doctor,  
Marcus, usually, had recorded vaccinations and known illnesses, with terse,  
sometimes heartrending marginal notes. "Malnutrition." "3rd miscarriage, malaria,  
husband has abandoned." "Assaulted in refugee camp. HIV +." "l. arm high amp."  
It was hard not to let the mind wander down the tracks left by these notes,  
to speculate about the lives behind them, the people so afflicted, and to wonder  
how they managed in the harsh world they were born to. But there was almost  
nothing he could use to track these people down, if the addresses weren't current.  
And the addresses themselves seemed unlikely to be helpful most of the time.  
"shed behind Mandy's"? "Alleyway near St. Luke's"? He could only hope these  
would make more sense when he got to Magburaka. Nick did his best to stifle  
a feeling of futility, and dropped the files on the passenger seat. Time to  
go have a look for himself. He had reached into his pocket for the keys when  
a faint shrilling noise caught his ear.

He turned and listened. It was coming  
from the church. The phone - he'd left it on the pew to dry. It must be working  
again. He jumped out of the jeep and flew through the church window, catching  
it on the fourth ring. "Nick Knight."

"Good to hear you! I was beginning  
to wonder." The sound was thin and crackling, but he had no trouble identifying  
the voice.

"Nat!" Nick began to make his way  
back to the jeep as he spoke.

"Is everything okay? I just wanted  
to check in."

"Everything's just fine." Except  
I'm lost, the road is probably washed out, I have no real leads, my powdered  
blood substitute makes me gag, and my socks are wet. No point starting.

"You're still in Freetown?"

"No, I'm on the way to Magburaka,  
where Marcus vanished. I've got a few leads to check out. Former R.U.F. members  
he treated who might be willing to talk." Nick did his best to sound confident.  


"How's it been going?" Nat sounded  
a little on edge. Was she worried?

"Pretty well," he reassured her.  
"The M.S.F. have already started their own investigation, and they have a lot  
of information, people on the ground." And in the ground, probably. How old  
were most of those files? "I think they're humouring me by letting me help.  
They don't really need me." He remembered Dr. Eckhardt, swaying with fatigue,  
and Enkin's look of transparent gratitude when Nick stepped in and made a firm  
decision, probably the first one anyone had made in a week. "I'm sure something  
will break in the next few days." Before she could ask anything more, he changed  
the subject. "How are you feeling?" There was no point worrying her needlessly,  
especially in her condition. And surely in a few days he would know more than  
he did now.

"I'm fine. Still mostly on bed rest,  
and I can't work. But I'm allowed to move around the apartment now, and go out  
once a day to rent more videos." She was mocking herself, but she sounded drawn.  
She had never liked to give in to illness, to rest or take care of herself,  
he remembered; she preferred to distract herself through work. He remembered  
her obstinately staying through a shift at the morgue, mopping at her swollen  
eyes and reddened nose, insisting "it's just an allergy attack, it happens every  
-" checking the calendar - "January", and breaking off in the middle to sneeze.  
'You're allergic to snow?' he had teased her. It all seemed so far away.

"You sound bored stiff," he said  
sympathetically now.

"I am. Terribly. And I've got too  
much time to brood," she said at once, and he knew he'd hid the nail on the  
head. "But I shouldn't keep you on the line, I know this is expensive. I just  
wanted to make sure you were okay."

"You don't need to worry about me,"  
Nick said. "I was going to phone yesterday but thought I'd wait until I had  
some news." I didn't want to admit I had nothing yet.

"Call anyway," Nat said immediately.  
"I do worry. It's a dangerous area. I mean, even for you."

"Don't forget my superpowers," Nick  
said lightly. "I can fly. I can walk through stone walls. My strength is as  
the strength of ten..."

"Yeah, yeah, because your heart  
is pure. Just take care, okay? I feel responsible for your being there at all,  
and it makes me anxious."

"Honestly, Nat, don't worry." Nick  
had reached the jeep again and was pulling off the camouflage net with his free  
hand. "It was my idea to come. I haven't been in Sierra Leone before, I grant  
you, but I've been in places like it. I'm familiar with war zones. I can take  
care of myself. I'll find out what I can and I'll be back before you know it.  
It's Saturday now, right? I'll call you Monday to check in."

"Okay. Thanks." The air hissed and  
crackled. He wondered if the battery was giving out. "Well, back to Pride and  
Prejudice," he heard faintly.

"I didn't know you were a Colin  
Firth fan."

"Nick, you don't know any women  
who aren't. We just don't talk to men about it." She sounded amused. At least  
he could still make her smile. "Talk to you Monday then." She rang off, leaving  
Nick feeling unreasonably cheered. So Nat was thinking about him after all.  
Though she's probably only worried for the sake of her precious Marcus, his  
internal voice informed him. Oh, shut up, he answered it amiably. At least she's  
concerned.

Nick climbed into the driver's seat  
and checked his watch. It was nearly 8:00; time to call Eckhardt, although he  
would rather not. It was embarrassing to admit how short a distance he had come.  
He steeled himself and dialled the hospital number. The phone rang several times  
before a female voice took his name and asked him to hold. A moment later a  
brisk voice answered. "Carmela Enkin. How are you doing? Any luck?"

"I'm fine, but I'm not in Magburaka  
yet. I'm just outside Masiaka. I missed a turn and it took awhile to find the  
road again."

"Watch yourself, there's been R.U.F.  
movement near there," Enkin said. "They raided the shops in Masiaka just last  
night."

"Really." That explained the broken  
glass and emptied shops. Nick looked back towards the town. The horizon was  
not glowing as it usually did, in this century, over inhabited areas, lit by  
electricity, streetlamps, and cars. At least there was no sign of fire. Perhaps  
the townspeople were keeping a low profile tonight, in fear of another attack.  
"Do you know what they took?"

"The usual. Food, fuel, medical  
supplies. Why?"

"Just thinking out loud." The phone  
crackled again. Nick made a mental note to plug it into the charger as soon  
as the call was over. "Would you know if they took more medical supplies than  
usual?"

"They cleaned the town out, from  
what I hear, but that's normal. They take whatever they can get." There was  
a pause, as if Dr. Enkin was thinking also. "Are you thinking they may have  
some need for a doctor?"

"They probably always do," said  
Nick. "I wonder where they're camped."

"Masiaka," said Dr. Enkin. "That  
rings a faint bell. I think I might have seen one or two possible R.U.F. members  
from there in the patient files. We weren't thinking about Masiaka when we were  
sorting them last week, so I didn't set them aside."

"It's only, what, sixty miles from  
Magburaka to Masiaka?" said Nick. "It's certainly possible that the raiders  
came from somewhere near here."

"Or took Marcus and Anneliese there  
afterwards," Enkin agreed. "As long as you're there, you may as well see what  
you can find out." He could hear paper rustling as she spoke, and her voice  
sounded farther away, then returned. "We must have put the Masiaka file away  
in one of the boxes. I'll have a look through and call you back in probably  
around an hour."

"'Fine." He'd use the time to look  
for a few unlucky rodents. He needed something to wash the taste of dehydrated  
bull's blood of his mouth. "I'll wait to hear from you before I move on. How's  
Dr. Eckhardt doing?" he asked in afterthought.

"Much better," Enkin assured him.  
"He slept for nearly sixteen hours and actually ate something when he got up.  
He's not his old self again, but at least he's functioning."

"That's good. Talk to you shortly."  
He'd done some good, then. Nick ended the call and rummaged through his bag  
for the battery charger. He hooked it up to the cigarette lighter and attached  
the phone, stuffing both under the driver's seat in case of a shower. Then he  
looked around perfunctorily for observers and set off into the sky.

Once again he found himself entranced  
by the African night. The warm humid air bore a thousand new scents; the skies,  
partially free of clouds, were full of unfamiliar stars. During the day, surrounded  
by the human signs of war and devastation, he questioned his sanity in coming  
here; but at night, in the Sierra Leone countryside, he almost felt at home.  
He hung in the air just above treetop level, reveling in the night air, listening  
for the sounds of larger animals. He heard none and after a few moments gave  
up and dropped silently towards the unmistakable sound of a small night-creature  
feeding. He found an unfamiliar marmot-like rodent, which became aware of his  
presence just too late. There was a second a little farther on.

His hunger satisfied, he looked  
around the forest. The small, peaceful sounds of animals, insects, and strange  
night birds making their homes around him, the smells of lush green plants opening  
themselves to the moisture in the air and damp earth after the rain, the absence  
of any sound or sight of human presence, together soothed and relaxed him. There  
was time to walk back to the meadow around the church.

In following the forest paths left  
by animals between the trees he found he was gradually diverted away from the  
meadow and around the church towards the road. He was enjoying the stroll and  
allowed it. When he emerged from the trees onto the road found he was a little  
way down on the side away from town. A wind had blown up, and he debated flying  
a little way down the road to Masuri to reconnoiter. But he should probably  
get back. Instead he flew along the road and dropped to the ground beside the  
church. Feeling relaxed and cheerful from his stroll, he walked around the side  
wall to the jeep.

A decrepit Peugeot deux-chevaux,  
rusted and missing one headlight, was parked behind the jeep. Three young men  
stood around it. A tall, slender youth, leaning against the hood, held an ancient  
AK47, the safety off, which he raised lazily and pointed at Nick as he rounded  
the corner. Another, similar enough to be his brother, wore Nick's coat, still  
rumpled and damp, and rested an arm on the roof as he leafed through the files  
that had been on the passenger seat. The third, shorter and muscular, was going  
through his bag, examining the contents and strewing them on the ground. All  
three wore baggy cotton trousers, well-used t-shirts, and revolvers stuck into  
their waistbands. R.U.F. members or government troops, but likely R.U.F.

Nick came to a halt. For a moment  
no one moved. Then the one with his bag bent and picked a foil package from  
the ground where he'd tossed it. He waved it at Nick. "What's this?"

"A nutritional supplement." He pointed  
to his mouth, but the other had already looked away. Nick moved slowly forward,  
keeping his hands visible. The AK47 pointed more sharply, and he halted where  
he stood. He could handle three adversaries, but he didn't want to kill anyone.  
And a submachine gun, even one as old as this one looked to be, gave him pause.  
Those old AK47s never seemed to die. He wondered where they'd got it. It probably  
couldn't kill him unless it took his head completely off, but a full clip would  
slow down even a vampire while he healed.

The muscular youth tossed the foil  
package back on the ground. He pulled a plastic tube from the bag. "What?"

"Sunscreen."

There was general amusement. The  
sunscreen landed on the ground beside the foil pack. The one leafing through  
the files said "hey, Charlie Mugabe. I know him."

"Thought he was killed last month  
at Masuri," said the gunbearer.

"Yeah." The reader rifled through  
the other files. "I know half these people." He looked at Nick for the first  
time. "What are you doing with our friends' names in your papers?"

Nick had had time to try to think  
of an answer to this question. "I'm just bringing the files back to the clinic  
in Magburaka."

"It's gone." From the muscular one.

"They're starting another one. Out  
of the hospital." Nick tried to capture his eye as he spoke, to calm him and  
take control. But none of the men were looking at him now. The one wearing his  
coat was looking at the muscular one, for instructions, Nick realised; he must  
be the leader. The gunbearer was watching the other two. Nick might as well  
not have been there. But he knew from the gunbearer's stance that if he made  
any sudden motions, he would be shot.

"The hospital? That the one by the  
main square?" asked the muscular one, keeping his eyes on his associates. His  
tone of voice told Nick to be wary.

"I don't know," said Nick. "I have  
to ask directions when I get there." A certain relaxation in their stance told  
him that if he hadn't passed the test, at least he had not failed it.

"You a doctor?"

Nick wasn't sure what the right  
answer was. "Paramedic." True enough, although his Vietnam training was forty  
years behind him.

The leader dumped out the rest of  
the contents of his bag and shook it. Nick's clothes spilled out and he stepped  
on a shirt, grinding it deliberately into the mud. "You've got no supplies."

Medical supplies, he must mean.

"They have them at the hospital."

"They've got nothing up there."  
The leader jerked his head and the submachine gun was raised towards him again.  
"You people never travel without supplies."

"They couldn't spare anything in  
Freetown."

Apparently that was possible. He  
felt another minute relaxation. The leader's heartbeat, mildly elevated, slowed  
slightly.

"What will you do in Magburaka?"

"Help out at the clinic until they  
find a doctor."

His bag was dropped on the ground,  
empty. The leader scrutinized him and shrugged, apparently satisfied. "Walk  
there." He looked at the young man with the files and jerked his head towards  
Nick. "Get his keys." The AK47 stayed unwaveringly on him. The one wearing his  
coat tucked the files under his arm and approached from the side.

"Right pocket", said Nick, resigned.  
Inwardly he calculated rapidly. He could overcome this one, but the others were  
out of his immediate range. Better to just let them steal his jeep. This could  
still work out well. As soon as they left he could take to the air and follow  
them. Even if they didn't lead him straight to a rebel camp, surely he could  
learn something that might lead him to the doctor. He stood docilely as the  
one with the files fished out the keys.

"Over there, on your face, hands  
behind your head," the leader ordered, and the machine gun jerked towards the  
concrete patio outside the church door. Nick lay down on the pavement, hands  
behind his head. Were they planning to shoot him after all? He hoped not. Without  
human blood it would take a long time to heal, and he wanted to follow them  
when they left.

"Count to a hundred before you look  
around or think about getting up," said the leader. Nick nodded without looking  
behind him. He could hear them turning and walking towards the jeep, the gunbearer  
last, walking backwards and keeping the gun trained on Nick.

"Why we don't just waste him?" he  
could hear one muttering, and the leader answering "Save the ammo. How long  
will he last out here?" There was a rustle and a clinking sound, and the leader's  
voice again, "here, you take the car. Fitz and I'll get the jeep."

Nick's shoulders were tense from  
keeping his position. He didn't move. The Peugeot door chunked open and shut.  
The ignition didn't catch, and didn't catch, and caught. He could hear the car  
reversing at high speed and swinging around in a squealing turn, before slamming  
into forward and disappearing around the corner of the church. Hot dog. He probably  
didn't get to drive too often.

His shoulders ached. He heard the  
leader climbing into the jeep. The click of the key being inserted in the ignition.  
The engine turning over. The leader: "Come on, Fitz, I haven't got all day."  
The gunbearer taking one, two, three steps backwards towards the jeep. Opening  
the door. Turning to climb in.

The phone rang.

His heart sank. Dr. Enkin had called  
back early. All bets were off.

Everything happened at once. "What  
the f - ?" he heard from the leader, and scrabbling as he looked for the source  
of the noise. Nick had begun to roll to one side. The gunbearer, startled, waved  
the AK47 and let off a burst in his direction, stitching a line of bullet holes  
along the concrete and through Nick on its way to the church wall behind him.  
He was jolted by the force of the impacts as the bullets pierced his body and  
flattened themselves on the concrete beneath him. He hadn't been shot in years.  
It was surprisingly painful. That settled it. The moment for diplomacy was over;  
it was definitely time to go.

Nick leaped from the ground and  
rushed the gunbearer. Or he tried. Somehow his legs didn't respond to command.  
He looked over his shoulder in surprise, and saw blood seeping from several  
wounds across his back. More than one bullet must have penetrated the spine.  
He was paralyzed from the waist down until it healed. Probably only moments,  
but still too long. The situation was spiralling out of control, and he was  
out of ideas. He pushed himself over to one side with his arm and looked up  
at the two men at the jeep. What were they going to do?

The leader had located the phone.  
As Nick watched he thumbed the power button. Nick's vampire hearing picked up  
Dr. Enkin's voice. "Nick? I found it! " The youth grunted noncommittally and  
she went on, obviously assuming she was speaking to Nick. "I must have set the  
file aside with the Freetown batch. The name is Clarence Perkins. We saw him  
three years ago. He was staying at ... " he could hear her sorting through papers  
as she spoke - "here it is. He was at his uncle Basil Perkins' farm about fifteen  
miles out of Masiaka just off the Magburaka road. You can pay him a visit on  
your way."

Nick heard a strangled moan and  
realised it was his own voice, saying "no, stop ..." before she said anything  
incriminating. But it was clearly too late, to judge by the look on the leader's  
face. He knew Clarence Perkins. He even knew the farm. He switched off the phone  
without answering her, his eyes on Nick.

"You're a f***ing journalist, aren't  
you. A spy."

"No! I'm a para-" ... but the other  
man pulled his revolver from his waistband and impassively shot him through  
the heart. The shock and pain of the impact stunned Nick. He fell back and lay  
momentarily incapacitated, staring up at the night sky. He just needed a few  
moments and he could heal enough to move away ... to do something ... but through  
the pounding surf in his ears he heard the other say,

"Go ahead, make sure he's dead.  
You've wasted half a clip already." And the gunbearer giggled and stood over  
him, and emptied the rest of the clip into his helpless body at point blank  
range. He heard a stray round ricochet from the ground to the church wall and  
back the watermelon-rind crunch as it entered the back of his skull.

Thick black fog reached tendrils  
around Nick and welcomed him, embraced him, drew him in. And he fell, gratefully,  
wanting only to rest and forget. With his last moment of consciousness he heard  
"pick up the empty, a****le, we can refill it," and wondered what it meant.  
Then the world went dark.

***

He was standing on Nat's balcony  
looking in. Nat was in her apartment. The new one, in Vancouver. He didn't recognize  
much of the furniture. She must have left a lot behind in Toronto when she moved.  
She saw him and said something, looking at him earnestly. He couldn't hear her  
through the glass. She repeated it, her lips enunciating carefully, exaggerating.  
"I-forgive-you", he understood at last. "I-forgive-you", her lips said. She  
looked to see that he had understood and he nodded. She smiled at him, satisfied,  
and turned away.

He knew he should be happy but he  
felt bereft. If she forgave him, wouldn't she forget him too? If she let go  
of her anger, wouldn't she let go of him? He didn't want her to let him go.  
He wanted to keep making it up to her forever. He stood on the balcony and watched  
her move around her apartment. He wanted to stay. If she would let him keep  
making it up to her, he would have an excuse to stay.

***

When he awoke didn't immediately  
remember where he was. He was lying on his back on wet pavement, under a stained-glass  
window. A church, it must be. He tried to sit up, but his body didn't respond,  
and he realised that he couldn't feel his legs. He looked down at himself and  
saw a body riddled with bulletholes, tatters of clothing plastered to the wounds  
with drying blood. A crater was gouged out across his abdomen and another through  
his ribcage over the heart, and splinters of white bone poked out of the hole.  
His spine must have been more than severed; pulverized, he suspected. He instinctively  
tried to raise his hand to cover the wounds, but his arm didn't respond either.  
He craned his neck to look around him. Much of the dampness of the pavement,  
he saw, was from the pool of blood in which he lay. His left arm had been entirely  
severed at the bicep by the same hail of bullets. The rest of it lay a little  
way from his body.

It was disturbing that he felt no  
pain. Even for a vampire, this level of injury should have caused him some discomfort.  
But he felt nothing at all below his shoulder blades.

He closed his eyes and laid his  
head back. His mind was foggy and he felt dizzy, perhaps from the loss of blood.  
He lay quietly for some time, unable to summon the energy to do anything else,  
drifting in and out of a light doze. Memory gradually returned in his more lucid  
moments. A face, grinning down at him. A young man, smiling as he emptied the  
clip of an AK47 into his defenseless torso. A phone ringing. A youth wearing  
his coat. His clothes, scattered in the mud. By the time the eastern sky had  
begun to lighten, the whole meeting by the jeep was clear in his mind again,  
unrolling with hideous inexorable clarity to the climactic moment, the grinning  
youth standing over him with the gun.

Once he had remembered it he could  
not keep himself from replaying the scene, going over and over it with useless  
second thoughts, as if he could edit the story, revise it so that it came out  
a different way. I should have flown straight to the jeep, I would have seen  
them first. I should have been listening. I should have jumped the guard when  
he looked away. When there were only two of them left. When the phone rang.  
There must have been something I could do. Anything.

Whatever it was, he hadn't done  
it.

He lay on the bloodstained pavement,  
staring up at the African stars, and felt, more than anything, like a fool.  
I thought I was invincible, he thought savagely. I thought I could play the  
hero. I could make the dramatic gesture, fly into Freetown, rescue Nat's doctor  
with one hand tied and hand him over with a ribbon around his neck. I could  
tell myself I hadn't ruined her life after all, I'd repaid my debt. They were  
all right. Janette, LaCroix, Nat. I wanted to make amends. I don't often get  
the chance. It was an opportunity I couldn't resist. I really didn't think it  
would be that difficult. And now here I am. A moment's caution is all I needed.  
And instead I'm going to die.

When the predawn bird chorus began  
to sing, he let go of his thoughts, with an effort. There was no time left for  
regrets. He rolled his head to the side and looked down towards the puddle of  
blood under him. It was a little smaller that it had been when he first awoke;  
his body was reabsorbing it, trying to heal itself, but so slowly. Too slowly.  


He closed his eyes wearily. It took  
too much energy to keep them open. Natalie, my dear, he thought. I'm sorry I  
couldn't find your doctor for you. I meant to do something good for you. It  
means so much to me to see you smile. Wherever he is, I hope he survives and  
comes home. Since I know it matters to you.

Since it doesn't look like I'm going  
to make it myself.

He felt himself falling again into  
a light doze, and jerked awake. There was something he had to do. Lord, he thought.  
I'm sorry. You know that. I've tried to make amends. Please forgive me. Please  
accept my soul. Please take care of Natalie and her baby.

He tried to lift his intact arm  
to cross himself, but it still would not respond. He could twitch two of his  
fingers a bit now, with concentration, and he used the index finger to laboriously  
trace a small cross on the pavement beside him. It made his hand feel warm.  
It was the best he could do.

He felt more peaceful after his  
prayer, and began to drift off again. It was probably an hour until dawn. He  
wondered if he would wake up before the sun struck him. Or when it did. He was  
wearing sunscreen and the UV protection clothing. Would that protect him at  
all, or only prolong the agony? He'd know soon enough. He was too tired to think.  


When he woke again it was just before  
dawn. The band of light around the horizon in the east was bright, and the clouds  
scudding across the sky were glowing brightly orange and salmon-pink above him.  
It was beautiful. He felt privileged to be able to watch it, and oddly serene.  
Some sensation had returned to his toes; pins and needles. If he had lived he  
would have been in a surprising amount of pain soon, while he healed. That at  
least he didn't have to worry about. He watched the eastern horizon in calm  
anticipation. He was about to see his first sunrise in nearly eight centuries.

A pebble scraped on the pavement  
behind him.

***


	7. Five Years Later: Jacob

Nick lay quietly and wondered whether  
to play dead. With his wounds he ought to be, and there was no point frightening  
his visitor. Had the R.U.F. soldiers returned? Probably not; he had heard no  
car. A child, perhaps. A vicar. Looking up with a sunny grin and half his chest  
missing would give any observer nightmares for life.

On the other hand in a few minutes  
it wouldn't matter either way. He heard nothing more after the initial click  
of stone on stone. Perhaps he had imagined it. Curiosity crept up on him. Was  
anyone there? Finally he couldn't resist any longer and turned his head, craning  
towards the sound.

Jacob the hotel desk clerk looked  
calmly down at him. Nick stared at him with a strong sense of anticlimax, even  
indignation. "How did you get here?" he heard himself ask.

"Do you really want to know?"

True, it wasn't important. Nick found  
he could shrug with one shoulder. He was unreasonably pleased when he managed  
it. With nourishment, he would probably have been partially mobile again in  
a few hours. Not that it mattered. In a few minutes Jacob was going to be very  
surprised to see him spontaneously combust.

Jacob looked Nick over quietly. The  
extent of the wounds did not seem to disturb him. Finally he raised his eyes  
to Nick's face.

""Do you want some help?" he asked.

"I'm past help, I'm afraid," said  
Nick. He glanced down towards his chest. No mortal could survive such injuries.  
"As you can see. But thanks for asking." Now why can't you let me get on with  
dying? he thought irritably. He had hoped to face death alone, in peace, not  
in conversation with a well-meaning stranger.

"Try me," offered the desk clerk.  
He remained where he was, watching Nick gravely.

Nick accepted the inevitable. A quiet,  
solitary death was not in the cards. Let the man try to help him, then, if it  
made him feel better. "All right," he said. "Please help me. Perhaps you could  
get me into the church." It was too late, he knew; the sun was just about to  
break the horizon. The other man could never drag him to shelter in time.

But instantly, it seemed, Jacob was  
at Nick's side. With surprising strength for a slightly-built man, he heaved  
Nick into a fireman's carry and seemed to all but fly to the church window.  
Nick felt a stray ray of sun on his legs, his shoes, and then Jacob threw him  
onto the cold stone church floor to safety. Nick nearly screamed as he landed.  
Sensation was returning.

"Sorry", Jacob said, clambering in  
the window after him. "There was no time to delay." He looked Nick over. Nick  
had time to wonder why his injuries didn't seem to shock the other man. He'd  
probably seen men hurt worse, but not likely still alive through it. Jacob was  
methodically rolling up his sleeve. Nick watched, his brain still too foggy  
to make sense of what he saw, trying simply to grasp the fact that he was still  
alive.

Then Jacob cut along the vein with  
a fingernail and began to press his bleeding wrist to Nick's mouth. "Drink",  
he said. "You are badly injured. Even you may not survive."

Nick gasped and wrenched his head  
aside. How had Jacob guessed? He tried to ignore the tantalizing thick sweet  
copper scent of Jacob's blood. "No!" he managed to say. "No human."

"Without blood, you will not recover  
before the bandits return," Jacob said. "And they will finish their work." He  
offered his wrist again.

Jacob's blood smelled heavenly. Nick  
closed his eyes and tried desperately to resist the scent and the longing it  
roused, his fangs tingling with his hunger. "I made a vow," he managed to say,  
and turned his head away. "No human."

"And what do you think I am?" asked  
the desk clerk.

Abruptly Nick felt the mental barriers  
drop that had masked from him the presence of another vampire, terrifyingly  
powerful, inconceivably old, and related. Of Nick's line. He stared up at the  
clerk, stunned. "You. You're the one I felt. My God."

"No, only your maker." Jacob's dark  
eyes were unreadable. He offered his wrist again and this time Nick could resist  
no longer. He lunged at it and drank.

The ancient blood flooded his veins.  
His entire body rejoiced, and he could not take his mouth from Jacob's wrist.  
This is what I need, his body insisted, and he hadn't the strength to stop.  
He felt Jacob rolling him to one side. Without interrupting Nick's feeding,  
Jacob slid in behind him and held him against his chest with his free arm, cushioning  
him from the cold stone.

For an eternity, it felt, Nick could  
not take his lips away. He could hear himself whimpering with pleasure like  
a nursing infant, and could not stop the sound or even summon the strength to  
be embarrassed. His whole body shuddered with relief as he drank; he could feel  
it absorbing nourishment, strength coming back to his arm, his legs, faster  
than human blood could have healed him, faster even than the blood of his own  
master LaCroix. Slow pain began to burn through his body as neurons reconnected  
and began to fire. Finally the pace of his suckling slowed and he did not resist  
when Jacob at last took his wrist away.

The clerk, the vampire, Nick corrected  
himself, was watching him with what looked like amusement as he rolled down  
his sleeve. He licked a trace of blood thoughtfully from the hand that had been  
wrapped around Nick's wounded chest. "I thought you wanted to die," he said.  
"You seemed quite content to watch the sunrise when I came."

Nick shrugged. "If I had to. But  
there are things I'd like to do first." He felt his chest with his good hand.  
It was mostly healed, but there was still a hollow where the wounds had been.  


"It will take you a couple of days  
for that to heal fully. Longer to grow another arm. I'm sorry, there was no  
time to go back for yours."

Nick looked out the window. It was  
full daylight by now; his arm would be a smoking patch on the pavement outside.

"Thanks for the rescue, " he said.  
"It wouldn't have been only the arm." He lay relaxed on the floor. Despite his  
wounds, he felt amazingly well. Tired, but peaceful and optimistic. And beginning  
to be curious, now that he had the strength. He rolled his head and looked at  
Jacob. "Who are you?" he asked. When the other didn't answer immediately he  
added, "if you don't mind my asking." It was hard to keep in mind that Jacob,  
the slender, unimposing desk clerk, was old and powerful enough to snap him  
like a twig. He just didn't look the part.

"Your questions will wait. Sleep  
now. It will hasten your healing." Jacob looked around and found the shallow  
cavity before the altar. The lid still leaned against the pew by the near wall.  
"There." He picked Nick up and began to carry him over.

"It's a baptismal font," objected  
Nick. "I can't  "

"Did it hurt you before?"

"No, but  how did you know  
I spent the day there?" asked Nick, sidetracked.

Jacob glanced around the church.  
"Where else would you find shelter?" He lowered Nick into the font and went  
back for the lid. "Rest now," he said as he covered him.

"What about you?"

"I rarely sleep," Nick heard as the  
lid settled into place.

At least the water had drained out  
during the day. And Nick was exhausted. He was almost instantly unconscious.

***

Nick awoke just after dark to the  
sound of muffled voices speaking Krio outside the church. He lay still and listened.  
One was Jacob's, he recognized. The Krio phrasebooks he'd studied were not much  
use in deciphering the conversation, but some fragments filtered through. "Where  
" from an unknown voice; then another, going on excitedly and unintelligibly  
for some time; then briefly, from Jacob, " in the jungle. You don't want  
"

Eventually the voices moved off,  
and Nick heard a car door slam and an engine catch and drive away. He recognized  
it  the Peugeot from the night before. His murderers, returning to the  
scene of their crime. He felt his eyes redden with a surge of blind rage and  
sat up, reaching to push the lid aside. They wouldn't escape him this time!

The lid was removed before he reached  
it, and Jacob stood above him, looking mildly into his face.

"Do you plan to kill them?" he asked.

Under his gaze Nick gradually calmed,  
and began to feel ashamed.

"They did do their best to kill me,"  
he said.

Jacob offered him his hand, and Nick  
took it and climbed out of the font.

"They're going to kill other people,  
too," Nick said. He looked down at himself. The cavity in his chest had healed  
over without a trace, and his arm had already grown back. He had healed faster  
than he had hoped, except for a certain residual weakness, and hunger, as if  
he had used up his reserves. He brushed off the bloodstained remnants of his  
shirt and trousers. "Are my clothes still out there?"

Jacob shook his head. "That's what  
they came back for, to hide the evidence. Your body too. It crossed someone's  
mind that there might be trouble because you're a foreigner. I said I'd buried  
it out in the jungle for them." He reached behind him and pulled a shirt and  
pair of trousers from the front pew. "I saved these from your luggage before  
they came."

Nick began to pull on the fresh garments.  
They were mud-spattered, and he remembered the leader of the group tossing the  
contents of his bag on the ground the night before. It seemed a long time ago.  
At least they were dry, and wouldn't draw attention as the bloodstained rags  
would.

"They believed you? About burying  
me out in the jungle?" he asked as he buttoned the shirt.

"Everyone believes me," Jacob said  
simply. "I have no stake. I don't look like a threat. Why would I lie?"

Nick considered the man before him  
with something close to awe. Even mortals could usually detect an older vampire  
in their midst, responding to the power they radiated without knowing what it  
was they sensed. The automatic mortal response to LaCroix, for example, was  
mingled fear and attraction. LaCroix enjoyed it, and capitalized on it when  
it was convenient to him. But he probably could not avoid it. Mortals recognized  
him as something different, more powerful than they.

For Jacob to suppress any trace of  
his power in his dealings with mortals, any hint that he was not as they were,  
took more self-control than Nick had ever seen in a vampire. It must have taken  
him a long time to learn. A very long time. And why would he bother to learn  
it? Nick opened his mouth to speak.

Jacob held up a hand. "We have all  
night to talk. For now, you must feed. You aren't yet ready to travel." He sat  
down beside the font, feet dangling into the hole, and began to roll up his  
sleeve.

"Why not hunt?" Nick asked. "I mean  
rodents. I don't mean to be ungrateful," he added when Jacob looked up. Though  
in truth, he was a little uncomfortable at the level of intimacy Jacob so casually  
offered in giving him his blood. Nick had rarely shared blood with any vampire  
who wasn't a lover. It was one thing when he was desperately in need, as he  
had been in the morning. But to offer again now hinted at an attempt at seduction.  
Though Jacob's behaviour was otherwise anything but seductive. Nick wondered  
how to ask what it was the ancient vampire wanted. As he tried to find the words,  
Jacob ripped open a vein and held his wrist up to Nick.

"If I wanted to have sex with you  
I'd say so," he said. "You need this to heal." He motioned with his head and  
Nick found himself obeying, sitting beside Jacob and bringing the wrist to his  
lips.

Once again he was overwhelmed with  
the feeling of strength, of warmth and nourishment drawn into every cell of  
his body as he suckled the ancient blood. This evening he was not so famished,  
and he had time to wonder at how little he learned about Jacob himself from  
his blood. Jacob's shielding was once again nearly total. Nick could glean only  
a few images from what looked like the Waverley hotel in Freetown, recent things,  
and no more.

Jacob withdrew his arm when Nick's  
pace slackened. He pushed his sleeve back down and methodically buttoned the  
cuff. Nick watched him, full of questions.

"Who are you?" he asked at last.

Jacob finished buttoning his cuff  
and turned his head to Nick. "What do you want?"

Nick was caught off-guard. Jacob's  
silent gaze made him self-conscious, and he floundered for an answer. "I want  
 " He closed his mouth and started again. "I'm here for a friend of mine,  
who  she's close to a doctor who was kidnapped a week ago, and I'm here  
to see if I can find him. News of him. Um, help if I can "

Jacob's dark impassive eyes stayed  
on him. He waited until Nick's faltering explanation seemed to have come to  
an end. "What do you really want?"

Nick's mouth opened but no sound  
came out. Something about Jacob made it impossible to lie to him now. "I   
" he took a deep breath. Like a child at a birthday, he was afraid that speaking  
his wish would keep it from coming true. "I want - " to be a real boy, not a  
wooden puppet, he wanted to say. To have a heart, not a tin can. To live again.  
"To be alive," he managed at last. "To have a soul again."

"You never lost it," Jacob said simply.  


"But I'm dead," Nick protested.

"You don't look it."

"I have no life myself", Nick said.  
"I steal life from others."

"Only plants create life from inanimate  
matter," said Jacob. "And not all of them. Even vegetarians kill to survive."

"But  " Nick abandoned the  
point. Jacob was being willfully obtuse. "Even if I seem to be alive, it doesn't  
mean I have a soul."

"Hm." Jacob seemed to give the point  
consideration. "Can you make choices?"

"Yes, but  "

"Can you distinguish between right  
and wrong?"

"Yes of course, but  "

"Then you have a soul." Jacob looked  
away as if the discussion was over, and began to stand.

Nick scrambled to his feet after  
him. "But wait  " Jacob seemed so sure. It was tempting to believe him.  
"But LaCroix  my master  he said my soul was dead  "

"And of course he'd know."

Good point, Nick thought. But what  
about the vision of his soul the guide had given him? Jacob began to move towards  
the door at the back of the church. "But I saw my soul," Nick said, following  
in his wake. "At the gateway between life and death. It was dead and covered  
with maggots."

"Did seeing that change your life?"

"Not  " Nick paused and thought.  
"In the long run, I guess it did," he said at last. "I think that was when I  
began to stop looking for a quick solution."

"Some people need to be hit with  
a sledgehammer", Jacob said. He reached the door of the church and set out for  
the road.

Nick followed after him. "But I can't  
touch holy water or crosses," he said.

"Have you tried lately?" Jacob jerked  
his head back towards the church. "What about the baptismal font?"

"It must have been deconsecrated,"  
Nick said.

Jacob shook his head. "That church  
is still in use. Every Sunday."

"But  " Nick looked back at  
the church, astonished. "Then it should have killed me."

"So what does that tell you?"

"I don't understand," Nick said at  
last.

Jacob continued walking on a little  
ahead of Nick. After a moment he spoke without turning his head. "What have  
you done that should doom your soul?" When Nick didn't answer immediately, he  
spoke again. "Tell me."

Was the man a fool? But Nick felt  
compelled to say something. "I became a vampire," he answered. "Isn't that enough?"

"A bad decision, certainly," Jacob  
agreed. "But nothing is enough until no more choices can be made. What else  
is there?"

"You mean, what other crimes?" Jacob  
said nothing. "Everything?"

"The general outline."

Nick felt baffled. Jacob was a vampire;  
he had to know what Nick had done. He had to be guilty himself, come to that.  
"Don't you already know?"

"Pretend I don't."

Nick decided to humour him. "I killed  
a lot of people."

"Out of hunger?"

"Not always," Nick was compelled  
to admit. "Often hunger. But also anger, pride, lust. Greed. Despair. Even out  
of boredom, just to have something to do." As he spoke he felt the hot twist  
of shame inside him. The killings from hunger did not bother him nearly so much  
as the rest.

"These were bad things to do," Jacob  
agreed. "Is that all?"

Nick thought it over. "Pretty much.  
At least, the rest seems trivial by comparison."

"And have you repented your crimes?"  
Jacob asked.

"Yes," said Nick simply.

"Asked for forgiveness?"

Nick remembered the farmhouse in  
Brabant. "Yes."

"Amended your life?"

"As far as I can, yes."

"Continued to ask for help?"

Nick thought it over. He did pray  
now from time to time when he felt he needed it. Quite frequently to begin with,  
after that night in the farmhouse. And just recently in fact, when he thought  
he was about to die. He nodded. "I guess I have, yes."

"Then I don't see that there's anything  
missing."

Nick did not respond immediately.  
He had caught up with Jacob as they spoke and now walked beside him along the  
rutted dirt road. Mud from the recent rain clogged his shoes and spattered the  
hems of his trousers. The thick, humid darkness enveloped him like a warm bath.  
The heat and the mortal exertion of walking combined to raise his temperature.  
He could almost imagine he felt human. They continued in silence together while  
Nick considered Jacob's words.

"I haven't been absolved", he said  
quietly at last.

"Medieval Catholics. How could I  
forget." Jacob sighed. "Everything by the book. Do you want to be absolved?"

"Of course, but who could?" said  
Nick wearily.

Jacob bent down, muttering under  
his breath, to run his fingers through the grass, damp with dew, and straightened  
again. He looked Nick in the eyes and spoke. "Ego te absolvo in nomine Patri  
et Filii et Spiritus Sancti". With his wet forefinger, he reached up and made  
the sign of the cross over Nick's forehead.

The dew, like the water in the baptismal  
font, felt warm, slightly effervescent, on Nick's forehead. He felt a wave of  
weakness, then warmth and exhilaration, at Jacob's words and gesture. The sign  
of the cross on his forehead stung pleasantly, but did not hurt. He stared at  
the other vampire.

"But - who are you?" he asked again.

"Among other things, I'm a priest."  
Jacob turned away again. "Now shall we go? If you want to save your doctor we  
have a walk ahead of us. He's in a farm ten miles up the road."

Nick fell into step again beside  
him. "Can't we fly?"

"You haven't the energy right now.  
You aren't fully healed. If I hadn't come you would have died."

"I know. Thank you. If you hadn't  
dragged me out of the sun  "

"Even so you would have died, without  
my blood. You were very weak. The old rules for killing vampires didn't include  
cutting them nearly in half with AK-47s only because they hadn't been invented  
yet. Massive tissue loss and neural shock will kill a vampire without treatment.  
It will be some time before you're at full strength again."

"Perhaps you underestimate me," said  
Nick. "I've healed much faster than you said I would."

Jacob shook his head. "You've been  
deeply asleep for most of four days. I've fed you whenever you began to stir.  
We've had two or three long conversations, which you ended by falling asleep.  
You remember none of this?"

"None," said Nick, uncertainly. Hazy  
memories hovered at the edge of his mind, if waking, of a reassuring male voice,  
of feeding and sleeping again, comforted. They could have been dreams. It didn't  
matter now. "Four days?" Jacob nodded confirmation. "I had no idea."

Jacob did not seem to feel this needed  
a response, and Nick fell silent. He could still feel the cross marked in dew  
on his brow, faintly damp, enormously comforting. His heart felt lighter than  
it had for  nearly forever. How could a vampire be a priest? he wondered,  
but felt no doubt that it was true. It didn't seem the time to ask questions.  


***

They had walked nearly a mile in  
the warm dark before Jacob spoke again. "Your doctor friend is partly right,  
you know."

Nick was confused. "I've never actually  
met Dr. Mackenzie, I don't - "

"Your lady doctor. The pregnant one."

Nick turned his head, startled. A  
vague memory crossed his mind, of the other vampire licking a trace of blood  
from his finger. Nick's blood. "How did you get so much out of one or two drops?"  
Nick asked. "I've never known anyone who could do that."

"We have had several conversations  
you don't remember," Jacob reminded him. "But you've never known anyone as old  
as I am, Nicholas."

Nick looked across at the older vampire.  
He appeared to be in his late twenties. He was slender, copper-coloured, black  
hair in tight curls, and nearly a head shorter than Nick. When Nick thought  
he was mortal he had taken him for a mixed-breed, legacy of the colonial era.  
That or perhaps North African, though he was rather short for a North African.  
Now he considered him more carefully. "Egyptian?" he guessed finally. Though  
the curly hair didn't fit.

Jacob was shaking his head. "Close.  
Fertile Crescent. We were just inventing agriculture. I lived outside what was  
eventually Ur."

Nick's eyes widened involuntarily.  
Before Ur. Before agriculture. Jacob was old. Older than any vampire Nick had  
heard of, by several thousand years. No wonder he seemed to be mortal. He'd  
had a long time to practice blending in.

"How did you - uh - " Nick paused.  


"Become a vampire? It's a long story.  
Maybe I'll tell you sometime." Not now, though. Nick took the hint and changed  
the subject.

"What is my lady doctor friend right  
about?"

"That it's partly a medical condition,"  
Jacob said. "Some of the cures for vampirism are medical."

Nick's head jerked around to him  
in surprise. "Some of them? There's more than one cure?"

"I have encountered at least twenty  
so far. All of the successful ones I have seen combine spiritual and physical  
approaches. Usually they take several years of effort to be effective. No doubt  
more methods will be discovered, as medical science continues to advance." Jacob's  
voice was serene. He seemed to have no notion of the effect of his words on  
his hearer.

"But - " Nick didn't know where to  
begin. "Then why haven't I found any of them?"

"My dear young man," said Jacob,  
"you've only been looking for what? A century or so? Even so you've come close  
once or twice. I've seen the acupuncture treatment you tried work on others,  
when it's combined with prayer. Unfortunately the healer your master killed  
was the last living person who knew how it was done. But there are plenty of  
other ways."

Nick was stunned. It had never occurred  
to him that there might be more than one cure. He had stopped really believing  
that there were any. Looking for a cure had become a hobby, something to do  
when he felt despair closing in; not something he ever expected to achieve a  
result. "Other vampires have been cured?" he said. Jacob nodded. "Why haven't  
I heard of them?"

"In a way, you have," said Jacob.  
"Have you never wondered why you meet comparatively few vampires much older  
than you are?"

Nick shrugged. "I assumed they died.  
Most of us don't make it out of our first century, after all. Sunlight, fire,  
stakes, lynch mobs. Other vampires. One way or another, most of us die."

"That's true. More than half of us  
die before we reach our first century. A third of the remainder do not reach  
the end of the second. Even older vampires grow careless. And many despair and  
walk into the sun. Even so, there should be more vampires."

"So the rest are cured," Nick said.  
Jacob nodded again. "But why hadn't I heard of this?" he asked again. It seemed  
very hard to believe.

"Eventually, all who truly seek a  
cure will find one," Jacob said. "But not that many want to be cured; certainly  
not many as young as you. And those who do seek a cure usually take care not  
to draw attention to themselves, for fear of the same kind of opposition you  
have had from your master, or worse. And then they tend to gradually lose touch  
with the vampire community in the course of their quest; the mortal world interests  
them more, and they have less and less contact with other vampires. So when  
they succeed in becoming mortal the change is not much noted. And then, of course,  
they die, and you don't meet them."

Nick mulled this over. "If you've  
found cures," he said at last, "then why aren't you mortal?"

Jacob didn't answer immediately.  
"There has always been some task I needed to complete first," he said at last.  
"Eventually I accepted that I could be more use in my present condition."

"But wouldn't you like to be human  
again?" Nick asked, adding when Jacob didn't immediately respond, "I'm sorry,  
that's a personal question."

Jacob shrugged. "Would I like to  
be human?" he repeated meditatively. "There was a time when I would have liked  
it very much; right after I changed. I would have liked to put the whole world  
back the way it was before the change, and make a different choice." Nick nodded;  
he remembered this keenly. "But it could not be done," Jacob continued, "and  
time went on, and everyone I knew and loved died, over the course of time, as  
I kept watch over them from far away. Of course I was exiled from their lives  
after my change."

Nick nodded, remembering Fleur, and  
his mother. He had never seen either of them alive again after his last visit  
to the castle. His nephew, André, had recoiled from him horrified when  
he saw what his Uncle Nicholas really was. After that Nicholas had known he  
could not stay in contact with his mortal past. And soon enough they were all  
dead in any case.

"And I'm not like you," Jacob continued.  
"Even in life, I was never passionate. Except once." He did not elaborate. "It's  
not my nature to form close personal attachments. I have made friends from time  
to time over the years, and mourned their deaths. But I have never felt a passionate  
desire for closeness. I have thought, from time to time, that it would be pleasant  
to have a mortal life, to form a family and raise children and age with the  
passing seasons as mortals do. But I have always had other tasks."

He looked at Nick. "The vampires  
who are driven to find a cure are usually those, like you, who retain a capacity  
and a desire for love; or those who develop it over time. I believe that most  
vampires eventually come to that state; those, at least, who live long enough  
to overcome their memories of their crimes and the necessary self-absorption  
of the vampire. You've come to it unusually young. But this makes finding a  
cure imperative for you. You will never be happy as you are."

Nick nodded. "I do know that," he  
said. He took a breath and asked the burning question. "Can you tell me where  
to find a cure?"

Jacob shook his head. "I've told  
you all I know," he said. "It's different for every vampire who seeks. Somehow  
the spirit must regenerate as well as the body. The cure will only work when  
the spirit is ready for it. Different spiritual paths are appropriate for each  
individual. Similarly, as the physical and spiritual cures must be integrated,  
a different physical cure will act in concert with a different spiritual path.  
I said I have encountered at least twenty cures; in truth, it's more like twenty  
different types of cure, but I have never seen exactly the same cure work twice.  
So I cannot tell you what will work for you. Only that you will find the cure  
that is destined for you."

The disappointment was crushing,  
even though Nick knew it was unreasonable. At least he now knew a cure was possible,  
no mere pipe dream. Still, he found, he had hoped so much that Jacob could tell  
him where to find one. Perhaps would pull a vial out of his back pocket and  
hand it over, saying "just take three tablets with holy water"  well.  
"So I should keep looking," he said when he could control his voice.

"Yes. Keep looking, and you will  
find a cure when you are destined to do so. Unless it pleases God to claim you  
as you are. But you need not fear death, more than any other man."

The serene faith in Jacob's voice  
soothed Nick and abruptly, he knew that it was all true. He could trust this  
vampire, this priest, to know what he was saying. He was filled with a sense  
of peace he had not felt in - perhaps he had never felt it before. He knew that  
he would keep looking, and he would eventually find a cure, or die trying. But  
death did not have to mean damnation, even for one like him. His sins were absolved.  
He was free of his past, and the future was open. For this knowledge alone,  
he thought, his trip to Africa was well worthwhile. His heart was light as a  
balloon in his chest. The whole world lay before him, fresh and new.

"In the meantime," he heard Jacob  
say, "I would concentrate on the task at hand."

Nick came back to earth with difficulty.  
"Which is - ?"

"Whatever it is. At the moment, it's  
rescuing your lady doctor's friend. Other tasks will arise when this one is  
done. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and they'll come to you."

"Is that what you've done all these  
years?"

"One day at a time. Yes." Jacob bent  
down to remove a pebble from the tread of his sneakers. "Not at first, of course,"  
he said as he straightened. "Not for the first couple of millennia. But one  
grows bored with living for pleasure, or for that matter, for destruction."  
He glanced at Nick. "As you know. Now shall we go?"

He nodded at the road ahead of them,  
and Nick realised he had been standing stock still for some minutes, while he  
contemplated Jacob's words, and his newfound sense of freedom. His exhilaration  
overcame him, and he swept Jacob a grand, mock-drunken bow, twirling an imaginary  
hat before him in one hand. "But after you, monsieur," he said. "I insist."

Jacob rolled his eyes. "Don't let  
it go to your head." He set out again into the warm dark, Nick beside him.

****

"So what brought you to Sierra Leone?"  
Nick asked some time later. It was a couple of hours past sunset, and the moon,  
almost new, had long since set. It was pitch dark under the trees, and quiet  
except for the strange night birds and small animals, who fell silent as they  
approached, their footsteps muffled in the soft, damp dirt by the side of the  
road. A fresh wind had begun to blow, and the night was almost cool. It was  
hard to imagine in the peace of the night that Sierra Leone was riven by war,  
poverty, and disease, home to terrorists, rebels, refugees, and omnipresent  
death. But Nick could not forget the scenes in Freetown and Masiaka; the burned-out  
buildings, the hopeless people in the Murray Town camp, the child terrorists,  
the youths who had killed him, not one over seventeen years of age, and all  
of them burnt-out husks, hardly human anymore. "Surely there are more pleasant  
places for you to work."

"People need help here," said Jacob  
shortly. "They need it other places too, but this is where I am."

"But why did you choose to come here?"  
said Nick again.

"I was helping a man in a refugee  
camp in Liberia locate his wife and sons," said Jacob. His voice was quiet and  
dispassionate. "The trail let to Freetown. While I was there I met a thirteen-year-old  
boy hiding in a basement. He had been with the rebels and had been forced to  
commit crimes for them. Hideous crimes. Once he fire-bombed a house with the  
family still inside, and guarded the door so no one could escape. He couldn't  
sleep now, he said, because in his dreams every night he heard the voice of  
a little girl he had trapped inside, crying for her mother as the flames roared  
around her.

" He had escaped from the rebels  
finally and had stopped taking the cocaine they'd forced on him to make his  
crimes easier to commit. But now he could not face other people. He felt that  
he did not deserve human contact, ever to see or speak to any other person again.  
He ventured out at night and ate offal from rubbish tips. During the day he  
stayed in the basement, isolated, full of self-hatred, alone.

"I knew immediately that I had been  
led here for a reason. Someone must try to help these damaged children regain  
their humanity. It is a task with which I have some experience. I've been here  
three years."

"How long will you stay?"

"Until I'm no longer needed here.  
Until some greater need leads me elsewhere. I don't know."

Nick thought this over as they walked  
down the road. "Perhaps this is something I should be doing too," he said. "After  
we find Dr. Mackenzie. I could - "

Jacob was shaking his head. "I don't  
think so," he said simply. "Not yet. You have just begun to make peace with  
yourself. It will take some time before you can pass it on to others."

Nick walked on beside him in silence,  
feeling unreasonably hurt. No doubt Jacob was right. Still -

But Jacob was speaking again. "In  
any case, I think your present task is elsewhere. What are your plans, after  
this?"

Nick brought his thoughts back with  
an effort. "I was planning to set up an addiction rehab centre and homeless  
outreach program in Vancouver."

"That is very necessary work, and  
well suited to you. Why Vancouver?"

"I like Canada. I've never been on  
the west coast for any length of time." Nick shrugged. "And I was hoping to  
mend my fences with Natalie - my lady doctor friend. Though it doesn't look  
as if that's on the cards."

"She's unwilling to renew your friendship?"

"I don't know." Nick remembered the  
conversations they'd had in the last ten days. "I think she's willing to be  
friends, yes."

"But that's not what you wanted."

"Well, yes, of course it - " Nick  
broke off. There was nothing like a near-death experience to clarify the mind.  
Friendship was not what he wanted, he suddenly knew. It was probably all he  
could have, but it wasn't what he wanted. Why lie? He'd done enough of that  
over the years, to everyone, to Natalie, to himself.

"No, it's not. It's not at all",  
he said.

He felt a sense of release with his  
words, as if a band around his heart had suddenly broken, allowing it to swell  
at last to its proper size. "But what I want is unreasonable," he went on. "I  
have no right to expect it."

"Because?" Jacob's neutral tone made  
it easier for Nick to open his thoughts.

"I broke her heart five years ago.  
She did everything she could for me, and I never really reciprocated. And in  
repayment for all her kindness to me, I nearly killed her, and then I left without  
a word, for five years." Nick swallowed. "I'm lucky she's willing to talk to  
me at all."

"But she is?"

Nick nodded. "But that's all. She's  
reserved. Friendly, pleasant, courteous. But distant. And she wasn't pleased  
when I told her I was thinking of moving to Vancouver." That had really stung.  


"And you first spoke to her after  
your five year absence when?"

Nick was remembering that conversation  
with Natalie, and took a moment to bring his thoughts back to the present. "Oh.  
About two weeks ago. Nearly."

"So you first got in touch with her  
two weeks ago, after five years without any contact, and after two weeks she's  
still a bit reserved."

Nick shot him a glance. He opened  
his mouth to protest, and closed it again. "Perhaps I expected a bit too much,"  
he conceded after a moment.

"Really."

"Look, there are complications,"  
Nick said defensively. "Like this Dr. Mackenzie. The father of her unborn child.  
Whom she's offered to marry."

"A sensible woman. The child needs  
a father." Jacob looked over at Nick. "I can see that in the circumstances there  
is some need for haste. You had best move fairly quickly."

"And do what?"

"If you want to keep her you will  
have to get in first with a better offer," said Jacob bluntly. "She may turn  
you down, of course. But you will get nowhere if you don't ask."

"Ask?" Nick had a strong sense that  
the conversation had galloped out of his control.

Jacob said nothing.

""Anyway," Nick added, "this guy  
sounds like a saint. From what Natalie says about him he walks on water. What  
better offer could I possibly give her?"

"That's for you to discover. But  
I ask you this, Nicholas. You've known a lot of women in your time." Jacob's  
tone was matter-of-fact.

Nick would have blushed if he could.  
He nodded.

"How many of them really wanted a  
saint?"

"That's different," Nick objected.  
"They - "

Jacob touched his forearm for silence.  
Nick heard it too: the faint whine of an elderly truck engine in the distance.  
With one accord they stepped off the shoulder and sheltered in the undergrowth  
by the side of the road. They said nothing more until the rusted-out Range Rover  
had passed their position. They watched its single functioning tail-light without  
moving until it turned off half a mile up the road and vanished from view.

"That's the turnoff to Perkins' farm,"  
Jacob said quietly. " The R.U.F. are using it as their local headquarters. The  
doctors are being held there."

Nick looked at him. "Could I have  
saved myself some trouble by asking for help days ago?"

"No matter," said Jacob. "I believe  
we are still in time. I have visited twice while you slept. The doctors were  
still alive last night at least."

"Are they being held for ransom?"  
Nick asked. "There were no ransom demands before I left Freetown."

The other shook his head. ""No one  
outside the camp knows they're alive. They've been containing a cholera outbreak,  
and were too useful to kill. But there were far fewer sick last night, and it  
is my guess that they have almost succeeded."

"Which makes them dispensable," Nick  
said.

"And too dangerous either to keep  
or to release," Jacob agreed.

The two continued to follow in the  
path of the vanished tail-light. "I assume you have a plan," said Nicholas.

"Of course," said Jacob. "I suggest  
we remove the doctors from the camp and return them to Freetown."

"Simple," Nicholas approved. "Neat.  
But there may be some technical difficulties. What do we do? Just charge in  
and demand their return?"

"That is the most direct approach,  
certainly," Jacob said. "Of course the guards would immediately shoot the doctors  
and then do their best to kill us. But if that's what you want to do "

"Just joking." Nick held up his hands.  
"What do you suggest?"

They had reached the turnoff and  
began to go up the rutted drive. Only a thin sliver of the moon shone in the  
sky, too little to light the way for any but vampire eyes. In the distance a  
flicker of firelight lit the side of a farmhouse in silhouette.

"The camp," Jacob said, jerking his  
head towards it. He stopped and turned to Nick. "We need to separate the doctors  
from the main camp without arousing suspicion. And we need a way to transport  
them to Freetown."

Nick nodded. "Can't we borrow one  
of their trucks?"

"They only have two," Jacob said.  
"Both are guarded. It would attract too much attention to try to take one. And  
neither vehicle is in good enough condition to survive the journey in any case.  
You saw one just now."

"We can't fly them back."

"It's too far," Jacob agreed. "Especially  
in your condition. Not that flying with a mortal is ever wise. I think we need  
to retrieve your jeep."

"They don't have it here?"

Jacob shook his head. "The boys who  
killed you never told Perkins about it. They took it joyriding and abandoned  
it when it ran out of gas. It's on a dirt track near the river about half a  
mile from here." He gestured south-west, past the camp towards Masiaka. "Of  
course we'll have to find gas somewhere."

"Do you know if they looked in the  
compartment under the rear deck?" Nick asked. Jacob shrugged. "Because I arranged  
for the rental agency to store an extra jerrycan of fuel under there," Nick  
continued. "Whoever goes for the jeep could refuel it."

"Assuming the rental agency bothered  
to do it," said Jacob. "You're a surprisingly trusting soul, Nicholas."

Nick shrugged. "If they didn't, I'll  
have to find gas somewhere else." Though he wasn't sure where, in these parts.  
"I guess I should go for the jeep."

Jacob nodded. "You couldn't enter  
the camp without causing a sensation. And if a white man is seen within a mile  
of this place Perkins will have the doctors killed immediately."

The sky in the east had been lightening  
and now began to show a tinge of pink. "We'd better get undercover," said Jacob.  
"There's a shed just up the road here where we can spend the day."

He led the way to a low, plastic-roofed  
shed with a curtained door. Nick entered first and stopped short. "What is that  
smell?"

"Goats," said Jacob.

"What did they die of?"

"Don't breathe if it bothers you,"  
said Jacob unfeelingly. "You'd better hang your shirt over that window."

Jacob stretched out on a bench on  
the other side of the shed. Nick stripped off the shirt and tucked it into the  
cracks between the boards over the window so that it hung down over the glass.  
He nearly suggested they find other accommodations, but he could tell that the  
sun was nearly up. He sighed and sat down on the floor under the window, back  
against the wall, his feet stretched out before him in the damp, fetid straw.  
It was going to be a long day.

***

He fell asleep almost immediately,  
and awakened to a sound on the road an hour before sunset. He had curled up  
in the straw as he slept, and sat up, brushing bits of vegetable matter from  
his clothes. Jacob was standing to one side of the door opening, lifting the  
curtain by one corner to look outside without exposing himself to sunlight.  
"A truck from Yele just passed us", he said. "We have to get the doctors out  
as soon as the sun sets."

"Why?" Nick asked. "I mean, good  
idea, but - "

Jacob glanced at him. "There's an  
R.U.F. command base at Yele. Whatever that truck is doing here, it won't be  
good news. Things could go bad very quickly."

Nick digested this. "Maybe I should  
fly for the truck," he said. "At sunset."

Jacob nodded. "Be sure to hunt when  
you get there," he said. "To recoup your strength. There was a small herd of  
kudu near the river the night before last. I expect they're still there."

If Jacob thought the situation was  
urgent enough for Nick to fly, he must be worried. "What will you do?" Nick  
asked.

"I'll go into the camp, take the  
doctors out, and return with them to this shed," said Jacob. "Meet us here.  
Don't attempt to go into the camp yourself."

"Are you sure I - " Nick began, irritated.  
Was he such a liability?

"You can't go into the camp without  
endangering them," said Jacob simply.

It made sense, though Nick didn't  
want to admit it. "I wish there were something we could do now," he muttered.  
Now that he knew there was a need for urgency, he found the enforced inactivity  
before sunset hard to tolerate. He began pacing along the back wall of the shed,  
where the roof was high enough to allow him to stand upright.

"Conserve your energy," Jacob advised.  
"You'll need all of it later."

Nick nodded unwillingly. He settled  
back down against the wall, arms on his knees. "How are you going to get the  
doctors out?" he asked curiously.

"Whatever way seems best," said Jacob.  
"I'll impersonate an officer, probably. I'll have orders to move the doctors  
out of the camp and execute them. "

"They'll believe that?"

"Of course. They've been expecting  
the order for days, I should think. If they didn't get it just now."

Nick caught himself starting to rise  
and pace again. It was infuriating to be trapped in a shed, so close to his  
destination, while Natalie's friend was, perhaps, being shot in the head only  
half a mile away.

Jacob shot him a glance. "Don't think  
about it," he said. "Pray, if it makes you feel better. Then just do your best,  
and the results will be whatever they are."

Nick subsided. "I know." Hard though  
it was to accept it. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Might  
as well try to get a little more rest. Lord, please protect Dr. Mackenzie and  
what is her name, Eckhardt, he thought. The act reminded him of a question he'd  
been meaning to ask and he opened his eyes again. "Jacob? How did you become  
a priest?"

Jacob released the curtain and came  
back into the center of the shed. He lay down again on the bench. "I always  
was a priest," he said. "Even before I crossed over. I performed sacrifices,  
at least. That's what counted."

"But - " Nick sought for words. "Obviously  
not a Christian priest." Since Ur was at least 4000 years too early.

"Doesn't matter," said Jacob. "Same  
deity."

Nick thought he understood. "So you're  
Jewish? Um, Hebrew?"

"No, Abraham was well after my time  
too. Same general line, though. " He closed his eyes. "I'm going to catch a  
quick nap before things get lively."

Nick followed suit, closing his eyes,  
and trying to get comfortable again against the plywood wall. Did absolution  
count if the priest wasn't Christian, he wondered. His childhood catechism said,  
emphatically not. But he still felt light-headed and at peace. The cross of  
\- was it holy water? Had Jacob blessed it? Did he have that power? - still tingled  
faintly and warmly on his forehead. He certainly felt absolved. If he had any  
lingering doubts, he decided, he would go to a priest when he got back home.  
For now, he'd done his best.

Wherever home was, he thought sleepily  
as he drifted off. He'd thought he'd be in Vancouver. But that was up to Nat.

He awoke again at sunset. Jacob was  
shaking his shoulder. He was instantly alert, and followed Jacob out of the  
hut, tucking his shirt, which had pulled free as he slept, back into his trousers  
as he went. Once outside Jacob pointed towards a plane tree outlined against  
the sky, just south of the remaining sun-glow on the horizon. "The jeep isn't  
far past that tree", he said. " If there's no fuel meet me back here on foot;  
we'll have to hide the prisoners somewhere until we find gas. I'll expect you  
back in four hours."

It was only later that Nick realised  
how oddly natural it had seemed to take Jacob's orders. Now he simply said "Good  
luck with the doctors."

Jacob nodded and set off down the  
road towards the farmhouse. Behind him, Nick rose silently into the night sky.

***

Nick found the jeep without difficulty,  
abandoned on a sandy knoll beside the river. First he checked the compartment  
under the truck bed, and sent a silent and heartfelt thank-you to the rental  
agency when he found a sealed gallon of gas there as ordered. He refueled and  
checked the jeep for damage. It was filthy; it must have been driven through  
every mud patch in a ten mile square. The upholstery, such as it was, had been  
slashed and dirt ground into the cushions, apparently deliberately. The paint  
was scuffed in several places, the windshield was cracked, and the right door  
was dented badly enough that it barely closed. The keys were gone, of course;  
he would have to hotwire it. So was his wallet, which he'd left in the glove  
compartment, the satellite phone, and everything else that wasn't nailed down  
except, mercifully, the steering wheel.

The tires were still inflated, however,  
and when he connected the ignition wires the jeep started up with a reassuring  
rumble. He breathed a sigh of relief. As long as it ran nothing else mattered  
too much. He disconnected the wires again, suddenly ravenous. Jacob was right;  
he needed to restore his strength. He leaned against the warm metal of the door  
and listened for feeding animals, motionless against the night sky. In a little  
while he heard, above the gentle rippling of the water against the sandy banks  
of the river, a quiet, rhythmic lapping, upstream from his position. He turned  
his head silently and saw another deer of the same kind he had fed on - how  
long ago now? Nearly a week. This one was larger. A male. It had stilled at  
his motion, and he waited until it had calmed and begun to drink again before  
he struck.

He felt sated long before the deer's  
heart had even begun to slow, and released the animal with a pat. It looked  
at him uncertainly and then moved a little downstream from him and began again  
to drink, apparently unthreatened by his presence. Odd. Even odder that he had  
been satisfied with so little blood. Perhaps his stomach was still healing.  
Though he had drunk deep from Jacob.

He walked back to the jeep, vaulting  
into the driver's seat. It started up again and he forced it into gear. The  
joyriders hadn't done anything for the clutch. He ran it through the gears;  
third was hard to get into, fourth had dropped out entirely. Fifth seemed to  
be fine. It only had to last as far as Freetown, he reassured himself. Ninety  
miles. He slid his foot off the clutch and the jeep lurched into motion along  
the track.

***

He stalled several times before he  
got used to the damaged gears, and had to stop twice to physically manhandle  
the jeep out of mud-wallows in the road. It was nearly four hours later when  
he arrived back at the hut. At first he thought he was alone, until he saw the  
motionless figure standing in the well of shadow by the door. He climbed out  
of the jeep and whispered. "Jacob?"

The other nodded and came away from  
the door. "They're asleep", he said in a low voice. "What kept you?"

"Bad roads. Transmission problems."

Jacob looked the battered jeep over,  
frowning. "Will it make it to Freetown?"

"I think so. If we find more fuel."

"There's a depot outside Masiaka."  
Jacob looked at the sky. "We've got about five hours. It should be enough, if  
we don't break down. I'll get the doctors."

"Any problems getting them out?"  
Nick whispered as Jacob turned away. "Should we worry about pursuit?"

Jacob shook his head. "Perkins thinks  
they've been shot and buried by now. If we get them into Freetown by morning  
they'll be as safe as anyone is around here." He moved away pushed through the  
curtain into the hut.

Nick could hear murmurs and rustling  
from inside. In a moment two strangers appeared, looking around them with the  
glazed, owl-eyed stare of those awakened from a sound slumber. Marcus nodded  
to him and said simply "Thank you," as he came level with Nick. He was clearly  
operating on the thin edge of nervous fatigue, but nothing would make him less  
than courteous. Anneliese gripped Nick's hands in speechless gratitude. He could  
see the tracks of dried tears marked in the grime on her cheeks. He patted her  
back when she released him and helped her up onto the back bench seat after  
Marcus.

Jacob closed the door after them  
and clambered in himself on the driver's side. "I know the back routes", he  
said to Nick's surprised look. "We'll get there faster."

Nick nodded and climbed over the  
passenger door, a little peeved. Whose rescue was this? Of course it didn't  
matter, as long as Marcus was rescued, he knew, a little annoyed at his feelings.  
But he would have liked to feel necessary to the enterprise. He leaned over  
and hotwired the jeep one-handed when he saw Jacob feeling around for the key.  


Jacob looked over at him and grinned.  
"Couldn't do it without you, Knight," he said softly, and Nick felt at once  
reassured and embarrassed to be so transparent. The jeep lurched into motion  
down the drive and he looked over his shoulder to check on the passengers.

They had belted themselves in and  
were leaning against each other, for warmth, perhaps, or in fear. The man, Marcus,  
was looking away from him, back towards the camp, and Nick had the chance to  
look him over more closely. Even in his present unkempt and exhausted state,  
Nick could tell that he was unusually good-looking, powerfully and elegantly  
built, with the jawline and cheekbones of that wretched Scottish actor. Bond,  
James Bond indeed. This was information he really didn't need. He turned back  
and stonily contemplated the road.

Marcus leaned forward as they turned  
onto the main road. "Whom do I have to thank?" he asked Jacob quietly. "You've  
risked your lives for us."

"I'm the clerk at the Waverley",  
Jacob said. "I just came along for the ride. This man - " he jerked his head  
at Nick - "mounted the whole mission. Thank him."

"And you are - " Marcus turned to  
Nick.

"Nick Knight," Nicholas said uncomfortably.  
"I'm with the de Brabant Foundation."

"Oh yes." Marcus looked at him curiously.  
"I'm sure I've heard your name."

Nick felt unreasonably cheered. So  
Nat had talked about him? Probably hadn't said anything good, of course. "I've  
been with the Foundation for years," he said. "My name might have appeared in  
a report."

Marcus nodded and settled back, his  
eyes still thoughtfully on Nick. "How're you doing?" Nick asked, to change the  
subject. "I'm sorry there's no food."

"We need water more," said Anneliese,  
drawing Nick's gaze from Marcus.

Jacob answered. "We'll get some when  
we refuel. About half an hour from here." He seemed certain that both gas and  
water were to be found, and Nick saw their passengers relax. "You might as well  
try to get some rest", Jacob continued. "The roads are pretty dry, but it will  
still take about four hours back to Freetown."

"It's only ninety miles," objected  
Anneliese.

"By the main routes," said Jacob.  
"We won't be following them."

She nodded and settled back in her  
seat. In the mirror Nick could see them adjusting their positions, trying to  
become comfortable on the hard bench as the jeep bounced over rocks and potholes.  
The rustling as they shifted from one pose to another gradually died down, and  
when Nick looked back a few minutes later he saw that they had fallen asleep  
again, Marcus against the side of the jeep, Anneliese leaning on his shoulder.

"They must have been exhausted,"  
he said in a low voice to Jacob.

Jacob checked the mirror. "It's probably  
the first time in days they've let their guard down," he said. Nick saw that  
he was smiling.

Jacob turned off the main road less  
than a mile later, and thereafter they followed a bewildering series of ranch  
trails, cattle paths, and twisting logging trails through the patches of woods  
between the farms. Gradually the signs of habitation grew more frequent, and  
just as the needle began to hover on empty Jacob pulled up beside a decrepit  
barn next to the river. "There's a fuel tank in there", he said, jerking his  
head towards the barn. "We'll have to fill up by jerry can, there's no hose."  


Nick nodded and jumped out, gathering  
the jerry can from the back of the truck. "What about water?" he asked.

Jacob nodded to the other side of  
the building. "There's a rain barrel back there, and the farmer leaves plastic  
bottles out for the men to use as they work. I'll fill a couple while you're  
refueling the jeep."

As Nick began up the path to the  
barn he heard a soft thump on the grass beside the jeep. He turned and saw Marcus  
coming to join him. "Come to give you a hand," the other man said softly, keeping  
his voice low enough that it would not disturb Anneliese, who was still sleeping  
in the back. Nick nodded and they walked up together.

When they were a little farther away  
from the jeep Marcus spoke again. "I've remembered where I heard your name,"  
he said. "We have a friend in common."

Nick considered his options. His  
first impulse was to take shelter in his habitual mantle of secrecy and evade  
questions. But the last week had stripped his defenses from him. He had nearly  
died. He had been, perhaps, absolved of his crimes. It was time to turn the  
page. And he just didn't want to lie anymore. The weight of his secrets had  
nearly suffocated him. He would not pull that cloak back on. His decision felt  
sudden, but he knew it had been building for some time.

"Yes," he said. "Natalie Lambert."

Marcus nodded. "You knew her in Toronto."

"I was in love with her in Toronto."  
Nick felt as if a cork had come out of a bottle, and all his hidden thoughts  
spilled forth at once. It was so clear in retrospect. All that wondering how  
he really felt, all the convincing himself he had to protect her from himself;  
all that doubt and uncertainty - all of it a cover for his own fear. His heart  
felt weightless. He treasured the sensation. In eight hundred years, he had  
never, until he met Jacob, felt so buoyant. He could not predict what would  
happen next. He had had no idea that surrendering the illusion of control would  
feel so good.

"She never knew that," said Marcus.

"I never told her." Except once,  
and then wiped her memory. I was a fool. "There were reasons we couldn't be  
together. It seemed pointless." Nick thought. "And I was a coward," he added.  
This truth telling was addictive once he started. No wonder LaCroix had always  
warned against it.

"Do you love her now?" Marcus clearly  
wasn't one to beat around the bush.

They had arrived at a rusted gas  
tank, and Nick opened the jerry can and began to fill it from the stopcock at  
one end. The smell of gas wafted up from the can, and he turned his head slightly  
upwind to avoid it. "Yes," he said. Simple, now that the question was asked.  
Yes, I love her now. She has only changed for the better. And she was wonderful  
before.

"So what are you doing here?"

Nick shrugged. "You're what she wants."  
It hurt to admit it. But after everything he'd put her through in Toronto, he  
had to accept it. He deserved to lose her, and he had. "So I said I'd do what  
I could to find out what had happened to you."

"And be the hero if I needed rescuing."

Nick closed his eyes. He wished people  
would stop saying that. "I don't know," he said. "One step more or less led  
to another. All I originally meant to do was get someone else to look into it  
for me. But then I started to think I could be more helpful if I came out myself."

"Well, I'm glad you did." Marcus  
fell silent. The jerry can was nearly full, and Nick capped it and handed it  
to the other man. An empty can lay at the foot of the tank, and Nick began to  
fill that as well.

"I can fill this one while you take  
that down to the jeep," he prompted when Marcus didn't move. If they didn't  
alternate filling and refueling they'd be there all night. But the other man  
stayed where he was, watching Nick.

"Are you sure she wants me?" he asked  
quietly at last.

Nick was taken aback and did not  
answer for a moment. "It certainly looked like it," he said finally. "I was  
there when she saw your clinic blown up on the national news. She was devastated."

"We're close friends," Marcus said.  
"I'd feel the same about her. She wishes me well. But wanting me safe isn't  
the same as wanting me."

Nick looked at Marcus. "But - you  
had a relationship," he said. "And I know it was important to her. And - " he  
stopped. If Marcus didn't know, it wasn't Nick's business to tell him.

"And she's pregnant?" Marcus said.  
"I know. I got her letter." He touched the breast pocket of his shirt. "She's  
offering to marry me. And if that's what she wants of course I'll do it." He  
held out a hand for the second jerry-can, now full, and Nick handed it to him  
dumbly. Marcus was full of surprises. An honest man who knew his own mind. No  
wonder Nat thought so well of him.

Marcus turned down the path to the  
jeep and Nick followed him with the other can. "The thing is," Marcus said.  
Nick lengthened his stride until he was walking beside the other man. "The thing  
is," he repeated, "I don't know that it is what she wants. It may just be what  
she thinks is best."

Nick looked at him. He had had the  
same thought, but it wasn't his decision to make. Nat had a right to her own  
life. And a right to decide for herself what was best, come to that.

"So that's why I want to know if  
you love her," Marcus continued simply. "I know you were important to her. And  
I wouldn't want her to walk away from something she really wanted out of a misplaced  
sense of duty to me."

"I don't think - " Nick began. "It's  
not - " He inhaled and started again. "The question is whether she loves me,"  
he said, realising as he spoke that it was true. 'Not whether I want her. Of  
course I do. But I've given her no reason to trust me. She told me she doesn't  
even want me to live in Vancouver. After all the pain she went through last  
time I don't blame her."

Marcus nodded. "Did you ever find  
a cure for your condition?" he asked.

Nick's head jerked towards him in  
surprise. They had arrived at the truck, and Nick uncapped the can he carried  
and began to pour it into the fuel tank. "She told me you had some medical problem  
that kept you apart," Marcus explained, catching his look. "Is that taken care  
of now?"

Nick looked away from him, mildly  
embarrassed. He had the distinct impression from Marcus' gentlemanly euphemisms  
that the other man thought the problem was 'erectile dysfunction' or something  
equally difficult to talk about. "I've still got it," he said. "But it's under  
control. I don't think it would be a major problem now."

Let Marcus think he kept his Viagra  
prescription updated. He remembered the kudu, still drinking quietly from the  
stream where he'd left it. He'd had only a couple of mouthfuls, and that more  
than an hour ago; but he still felt no hunger. Natalie would be in no danger  
from him. No matter what they were doing.

If only she still wanted him. "Not  
that it matters," he added. "She doesn't have any interest in me now."

"That's not what it sounds like,"  
said Marcus. "If she felt nothing, she wouldn't care where you lived."

Nick finished decanting the second  
can into the jeep and they turned back up towards the barn for the next two  
gallons. He thought over Marcus' words. "You could be right," he answered. "But  
that doesn't mean she's going to change her mind. And then, I mean, she's carrying  
your child."

"Yes." Marcus fell silent as they  
continued up the path. Nick had begun refilling the first can before he spoke  
again. "My life is here," he said slowly. "Here, or in other countries where  
I'm needed. I know this is my calling. I've tried to do other things, and this  
is all that feels right."

His voice was matter-of-fact, but  
certain. "Nat knows that," he continued. "It's why we parted company. She respects  
my feelings, but she doesn't share them. And if we married, I would want to  
be out in the field, here or elsewhere, at least half of every year."

He stopped, and seemed to be thinking  
through his next words. "Under the circumstances, I suppose half a husband is  
better than none," he said. "But you came all the way out to Sierra Leone, and  
you didn't do it for me. You risked your life." He handed Nick the second can  
and put the cap on the first one, now refilled, and looked at him directly.  
"Tell me, Mr. Knight," he said. "Could you make her a better offer?"

"Yes," Nick was surprised to hear  
himself respond immediately. But he was quite sure. "If she were willing. I  
don't think she is."

The trickle of gasoline struck the  
bottom of the empty can and echoed in the silence following his words. At last  
Marcus looked at Nick again. "Does she know she has a choice?" he asked.

Nick shook his head.

"I only saw her again for the first  
time two weeks ago," he said. "And she wasn't too welcoming. It wasn't the moment."  
He considered. "And I didn't realise until recently what I wanted."

Marcus nodded. "She probably doesn't  
know yet what she wants herself," he said. "She's only been thinking of what  
she should do, not what she'd like." Nick nodded. "And then she'd need time  
to make up her mind. Nat doesn't like to be rushed."

"No."

They stood in silence again, both  
thinking about Natalie, as the next can filled. Nick closed the stopcock and  
put on the cap when it was done, and they turned and started down towards the  
jeep again.

"I have a lot of work to finish here  
before I can leave," said Marcus conversationally. "I'll need to train a replacement  
for one thing. If I could stay here for a few months at least, to tie up the  
loose ends, it would be best."

"But Nat shouldn't have to go through  
the pregnancy alone," Nick said.

"No."

Nick looked at him. "How many months  
do you think you'll need?"

Marcus considered. "Six."

Nick began decanting the gas into  
the jeep. "I need to do some work in Vancouver in any event. I'm setting up  
an addiction treatment and outreach centre on Hastings. It'll take a few months  
for me to finish that and hire enough staff to keep it going."

The two men looked at each other.  
"I know Nat had a bad time in Toronto," said Marcus after a moment. "I wouldn't  
want her to suffer any more now."

"She won't," said Nick. "Not by me."

Marcus held his eye for a moment,  
and finally nodded, satisfied. He turned back towards the barn. "All the best  
with the addiction treatment centre," he said.

"And with your work here," said Nick,  
following him with the cans. "Are you going to rebuild the clinic?"

"If we can find the funds," said  
Marcus. "It's desperately needed."

"The deBrabant Foundation had approved  
a funding application from your organization just before I left," said Nick.  
"You should hear about it within the week."

Marcus smiled. "That's good news."  
He looked around him. "We'd better get a move on. People may be looking for  
us."

"And waiting for us." Nick handed  
him a can. "Another eight refills should do it."

***

Both doctors fell asleep on the drive  
through the mountains to Freetown. Jacob's route was bewildering, through a  
twisting, convoluted web of ravines, passes and what Nick would have sworn were  
mountain goat trails. Twice Nick saw vehicles travelling on the main roads beneath  
them, but they saw no one on their own route, and Nick was glad Jacob was at  
the wheel.

"Are we being pursued?" he asked  
the second time he saw headlights in the distance, coming from Masiaka. He kept  
his voice low to avoid disturbing the doctors. Though if the rough roads and  
hairpin turns didn't awaken them, he doubted anything would.

Jacob shook his head. "I don't think  
so," he said. "We should be okay. The real risk is of a chance encounter with  
an R.U.F. squad. But few people use these trails."

"I'm not surprised," Nick said, as  
Jacob downshifted deftly, rounding a switchback two inches from a cliff edge.  
"Has anyone survived them?"

"I've never lost a passenger," said  
Jacob cheerfully. "Night vision helps."

Nick relaxed in his seat as well  
as he could. "Jacob," he said after a moment. "I had the strangest experience  
tonight."

"I saw you talking to the doctor,"  
said Jacob. "Was the conversation so surprising?"

"No - well, yes, but - I hadn't thought  
about it," said Nick. "I'm glad we had the chance to talk, certainly. But -  
" he trailed off, not sure where to begin.

"Have you decided what to do next?"  
asked Jacob. They came to another cliff edge and Nick could see a few lights  
in the distance. Freetown.

"Yes, I have," said Nick. "I'm going  
to go back to Vancouver and set up an addiction treatment centre. And see if  
I can persuade my friend Natalie to marry me."

"Good." Jacob sounded satisfied.

"Really?" Nick was still worrying  
at the question in a corner of his mind. "It's what I want, I know. But it seems  
self-indulgent."

"How can you help others to preserve  
what's most important in their lives if you have not experienced it yourself?"  
asked Jacob reasonably. "More than anything, right now, you need a normal life.  
As much as you can have one. Love someone, raise a family, help others to be  
in a position to do the same. You've been alone far too long. You need the understanding  
this will bring you."

"I suppose." Nick mulled this over.  
"Though that does sound like a convenient rationalization."

"Okay then, try this one." Jacob  
glanced at Nick, and turned his gaze back to the road. "Love is never a bad  
thing. Follow it when you find it. Not just the passion. The daily experience.  
You want to find your soul. That's the first place to look. Especially for you,  
since love has always been your strength."

"Okay". That was more satisfying.  
"But what if I can't persuade her?" Nick added.

"Then you'll have done your best.  
And you will probably remain friends, which will enrich your spirit almost as  
much." Jacob flicked another glance at him. "The key is to try."

Nick nodded. "There was another thing,"  
he said after a moment. "I fed, as you told me, when I found the jeep."

"But you only needed a small amount,"  
Jacob said. "And you're still not hungry."

Nick turned to him. "You know about  
this."

"My gift to you," the older vampire  
said. "As we get older, we need less blood. I rarely feed more than once a week  
now, and then very little. Feeding on my blood as much as you did in the last  
week has drastically altered your metabolism also. You will never again need  
to drain any victim larger than a rabbit. I suggest that you be sure to feed  
once a day, but you will not need much." He looked at Nick. "It will make life  
among humans much easier, until you find your cure."

"You knew this would happen," Nick  
said. The other nodded. "It will make all the difference," Nick said then.

"I thought you might find it helpful,"  
said Jacob. "Though there wasn't much choice. You would have died if I had not  
allowed you to feed from me. Think of it as a side benefit."

"Thank you anyway." The words were  
wholly inadequate, but Nick could think of nothing more to say.

The rest of the journey was passed  
in silence. It seemed only a short time later that the jeep pulled up outside  
the hospital. The eastern sky was growing grey, but it was still an hour until  
dawn. Marcus and Anneliese began to stir as the jeep halted, blinking sleepily.  
Nick climbed out and walked around to help them down from their seats.

  
"Is Willem here?" asked Anneliese anxiously, craning to see over his shoulder  
as she accepted his hand down. "He'll have been so worried."

"He was sleeping in his office when  
I left," said Nick. "He'll be better when he sees you." She nodded and ran past  
him towards the hospital as soon as he released her hand. Assuming he didn't  
have a heart attack when we were cut off in mid-conversation last week, he added  
to himself. Phone. His eyes widened as he remembered. "Oh no. I was supposed  
to call Nat on Monday. That's four days ago."

"Tell her the truth," advised Jacob.  
"She can hardly blame you."

"No, but she'll have worried and  
blamed herself," Nick said, distracted. "I have to find a phone."

"There's one in the director's office,"  
said Marcus' voice behind him. "I'll show you the way."

Nick turned to him, startled. He'd  
forgotten the other man was there. "I expect you'll want to talk to her yourself,"  
he said, recovering.

"You first," said Marcus. "The rescuing  
hero gets dibs." He sniffed himself. "And I desperately need a wash anyway.  
I'll show you the office and grab the first shower." He looked Nick over. "You  
probably want a change of clothes yourself. Can I loan you anything?"

Nick looked at his own creased and  
mud-stained garments. "Everything, thanks," he said. He had no money, ID or  
travel documents either, he realised. But one thing at a time. He could start  
calling bankers and consulates tomorrow. Tonight, Natalie. He turned to Marcus.  
"Where's this phone?"

Halfway into the hospital, Nick remembered  
Jacob and turned to say goodbye. But the other man had slipped away. Nick hesitated,  
then turned back towards the entrance. He could go to hotel tomorrow to make  
his farewells.

***

The vampire Nick knew as Jacob stood  
unnoticed in the shadow of a burnt-out building across from the hospital, watching  
the two men as they walked in the door. They seemed on good terms. It was a  
good sign.

He saw Nicholas hesitate and look  
back for him, and drew unobtrusively farther into the shadows. He'd done what  
he could for him. If Nick needed him again, he could be found, but he doubted  
his younger brother would require more help. He was ready, now, to face the  
world on his own.

It was time now to return to the  
care of others. The children of Sierra Leone were this year's task. Next year,  
perhaps, Afghanistan. Tonight - there was a camp in Masiaka that needed his  
attention. All over the world, he had younger brothers, human and vampire, to  
teach and to protect. To treat better than he had treated his own.

He knew he was long forgiven, but  
still he missed him. His beloved brother, Abel. Someday he would see him again.

But for now, there was still work  
to do. He checked for observers and rose silently into the night sky.

***

VANCOUVER

The worst of it was, she couldn't  
even pace. She was supposed to be off her feet. How many times had she told  
her own patients that? Stay off your feet to protect the baby, it's only for  
a few weeks, for a couple of months, for - she'd dismissed their complaints.  
In future she'd have more sympathy. It felt like a jail sentence.

And even worse now. She couldn't  
distract herself by cleaning, yoga, going out for a walk. Nothing. She was stuck  
here on this couch, flipping from CNN to the National News to the local broadcast,  
not sure if she hoped for news from Sierra Leone, or hoped there would be none.

Friends had visited for a little  
while every day, to drop off food and videos. She was grateful. Deeply. But  
that still left her 23 hours a day to be alone in, to fret, to stew, to imagine  
the worst. What could have happened to him? To them, she corrected herself again.  


She hadn't heard from him in nearly  
a week. He was supposed to call on Monday. It was Friday now. How many times  
had he forgotten to call? In Toronto, she'd lost count. She had so hated sitting  
by the phone. She'd avoided her apartment more and more in that last year, so  
she wouldn't hear the phone not ring. But now she couldn't leave the apartment  
to get away from it.

She never thought she'd feel nostalgic  
for the days when she knew he'd simply forgotten. But this time she knew it  
was different. He'd said he would call on Monday and she knew he would have  
if he could. He would have done it if something hadn't happened. Something pretty  
bad.

Maybe he just can't get to a phone,  
she told herself for the hundredth time. Maybe his satellite phone is broken.  
Whenever she'd tried it since they'd last spoken she'd got a recorded message  
which her French was just good enough to let her know meant "the cellular user  
you have called is not available now, please try later." It could be something  
trivial. The M.S.F. headquarters in Freetown, when she'd finally got through,  
had told her they'd lost contact as well, but if the phone had gotten damaged  
somehow there was nowhere he could get it repaired. It was probably nothing.  
But she knew in her bones it wasn't.

She should never have let Nick go.  
She should never have let him talk her into it. Marcus was probably dead already,  
and now Nick had gotten himself pointlessly killed trying to find him. Just  
because she was anxious and he felt sorry for her.

She could feel herself sliding into  
another guilt spiral and pulled up with an effort. There was no point to this.  
Sooner or later, surely, she would hear something. The Freetown M.S.F. headquarters  
had her phone number and had promised to call when they had news. Though the  
poor man at the other end of the phone had sounded as if he was in an even worse  
state than she was herself. In the meantime -

In the meantime, if only she could  
DO something. But all she could do was lie on this wretched couch. And worry.

She flicked the television on again  
and muted it while she surfed. Ricki Lake. Maury Povich. Jenny Jones. People's  
Court. The Cooking Channel, her favourite mindless escape, turned her stomach  
these days. Voyager. Janeway still had the Bun of Steel, she couldn't watch.  
Teletubbies, the best so far. A Murder She Wrote rerun. Good enough. She turned  
up the sound.

"So you knowingly sent her to her  
death, Mr. Barker. It may not be murder in a court of law, but - "

"No, I swear, I never meant - "

Oh, God. She shut off the television  
and picked up the Anthony Trollope novel again. She'd got about 3 pages into  
it in the last two weeks. You could tell the girl was never going to say yes,  
even though she loved the guy. Stupid woman. She wanted to jump into the novel  
and shake her. Is dignity worth that much? It was too frustrating to read on.  
After one paragraph she set it down.

And found herself glaring at the  
phone. Ring, damn you, she thought savagely. Ring! Don't you dare be dead you  
vampire bastard! Pick up the god damned phone! I'll never forgive you if you're  
dead. Pick up the -

The phone rang. She stared at it.  


It rang again. It could be anybody.  
One of her friends. Her doctor. Anybody. It had been doing this all week, tormenting  
her with false hopes. She didn't want to answer and be disappointed again. She  
sat and looked at it. On the third ring she took a breath and picked it up.

"Nat?" the line crackled. "It's Nick.  
Sorry I couldn't call before."

"Nick! Oh thank God. Nick. You're  
safe. You're safe?" she heard herself babbling and shut up abruptly.

"I'm fine, Marcus is fine, he's taking  
a shower, believe me he needed it, he'll call you in a bit. How are you?"

"Me? Oh I'm fine. I'm confined to  
bed rest for awhile but everything's okay. But what happened? Are you hurt?"  
Nat felt light-headed with relief. The cold weight bearing down on her heart  
for the last week melted and slid away, and she sagged bonelessly against the  
back of the couch. "I'm so glad to hear from you," she said. "I was so worried."

"I was injured but I've recovered."  
Nick sounded tired, but contented. "I'll tell you all about it later, I just  
wanted to let you know as soon as I could that we're okay."

"Where was Marcus?" Nat wanted the  
whole story at once.

"He was in an R.U.F. camp fighting  
a cholera epidemic. He'll tell you more, I'm sure. Look, Nat, I should get off  
the phone myself, I need to find somewhere to sleep." It was near dawn in Sierra  
Leone, Nat realised. "But I'm planning to come to Vancouver as soon as I can,  
probably early next week. If it's all right with you?"

He sounded tentative suddenly and  
she remembered everything she'd said two weeks ago, about not wanting him to  
live in the same city. It seemed like another lifetime. She hurried to reassure  
him.

"Of course it's okay with me. I'm  
really sorry I said all that about - "

"Don't worry," Nick said. "You had  
a right. And I'd rather know how you feel, always, than have you hide it. Honestly."

"Well, okay," Nat said. "But I didn't  
mean it. At least, I did, but I was mad, and I've gotten over it now."

"That's a relief," Nick said. "Because  
I do have a few months work I need to do to set up the centre in Vancouver,  
if that's okay. And I was hoping to see you while I'm in town. Catch another  
Jackie Chan film perhaps."

Nat smiled. "Not Jackie Chan this  
time. I want to see Iron Monkey", she said. "Only I can't leave the apartment.  
So I have to wait for the video."

"I'll rent it and bring it around  
as soon as it's out, if you're still housebound by then," said Nick. His voice  
had relaxed and he sounded cheerful. "I have some things to clear up here, I  
need a new passport and some money - "

"What happened?"

"Everything was stolen. It's okay,  
it will just take me a few days to replace things," Nick assured her. "I'm hoping  
to come directly to Vancouver after that. I should be there sometime next week.  
Will you be free to see me some evening?"

"I'll be lying on the couch for the  
foreseeable future, so yeah, come by anytime," said Nat. "Come straight from  
the airport if you like."

"I'll do that." She could hear him  
smiling. "I'd better go. See you next week."

"See you. And thanks, Nick," Nat  
said. "Thanks so much. I don't have the words to say."

"No thanks required, Nat." Nick's  
voice was sober. "In fact I can't thank you enough for sending me. I'll tell  
you all about it when I come."

Nat held the phone after he rang  
off until the dial tone cut in and jogged her into replacing it on the stand.  
She settled slowly back onto her pillows. Thank you, she thought. Whoever you  
are. If I'd driven him to his death twice I don't think I could have lived with  
myself. And Marcus too. Thanks for rescuing him.

I wonder if they liked each other,  
she thought drowsily, curling up on her side and adjusting the pillow under  
her head. Probably did. They're both good guys. Nick will tell me all about  
it, anyway.

The tension that had held her for  
the last week evaporated from her limbs. Ten minutes later the phone rang, and  
rang again, but she was deeply asleep.

***

He was leaning with his shoulders  
against the wall on the other side of the hallway when she opened the door.  
Not as immaculately dressed as usual. Jeans, white t-shirt, a soiled green windbreaker.  
A black nylon gym bag sat beside him on the hall carpet, his only luggage.

He looked gorgeous in the unfamiliar  
clothes. He should wear t-shirts all the time, thought Nat. Except he'd be mobbed  
in the street by excited teenagers.

"I had to borrow some clothes," he  
said, catching her glance at the jeans. "One of the doctors in Freetown was  
more or less my size."

"What happened to your things?" Nat  
said. "I'm sorry, do come in." She stood aside as he picked up the bag and went  
into the apartment.

She'd made some effort to clean up  
before he got there, but the main room still bore evidence that she was living  
there most of the time. The pillows and blanket spread on the couch made her  
usual station obvious, and he set his bag down by the rocking and sat down.  
Nat crossed to the couch and started folding up the blanket. Somehow she'd missed  
it in her earlier housekeeping.

"Don't," Nick said. "Honest, don't  
tidy up for me. In fact, why don't you just sit down and I'll get you some tea."

"You've been travelling for 36 hours  
without a break, Nick. Catch your breath."

"Fine, if you'll sit down," he said.  
"I thought you told me you were supposed to stay off your feet."

"I'm allowed 5 minutes up an hour.  
This is my five minutes," Nat said.

Nick looked at her. "You made that  
up."

"Well, okay, I made it up." She grinned  
over her shoulder. "I'm just so sick of lying down all the time."

"It won't be forever," Nick said.

"No, it will just feel like it."

Nick's lips twitched. "Tell you what,"  
he offered. "If you'll sit down again, I'll tell you all about my trip to Sierra  
Leone. And I'll make you a cup of tea, too."

Nat glanced at him suspiciously.  
"I recognize that tone of voice, you know," she said. "My patients use it on  
their three-year-olds."

"Only when they're being difficult,"  
Nick said soothingly. He stood up and took the blanket from her, and began to  
fold it.

Nat accepted defeat and sat down.  
Nick set the folded blanket beside her and returned to the chair.

She'd been fussing, she now realised,  
because she was afraid to look at him. Now she had no excuse not to. He looked  
tired. He looked - beautiful. He looked alive, and well, and unscarred by whatever  
had happened in Sierra Leone. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.  
She had been so worried that something desperately bad had happened to him,  
because of her.

When she opened her eyes again he  
was looking at her with a hint of a smile. She felt warm and suddenly self-conscious.  
"How's Marcus?" she asked.

"Well, when I left him," Nick said.  
"You've heard from him."

Nat nodded. "He wants to stay on  
in Sierra Leone for a few months. While he was out of action some American company  
started manufacturing the sleeping sickness drug, can you believe it? It turns  
out it can also be used as an ointment to suppress unwanted facial hair. (Author's  
note: this is actually true, I didn't make it up.) So suddenly there will be  
lots available, and he wants to set up a distribution network, and rebuild his  
clinic. And train a replacement. It all makes sense. I'll be fine here on my  
own. And he'll do his best to make it back before the birth."

"And you're getting married?" asked  
Nick. He suddenly seemed very interested in a Greek terracotta goddess figurine  
on the bookshelf beside him, and was idly turning it over in his fingers as  
he spoke.

"I don't know," Nat said. "We'll  
talk about it when he gets here. He said he's happy to if I want to, but it  
wouldn't be ideal for me. He'd only be here for half the year, at most. He wants  
me to consider my options before I agree to anything precipitate. " She paused.  
"He didn't seem very eager."

"From what I saw in Sierra Leone,  
Nat, he thinks of you very highly, and is very fond of you." Nick set down the  
statuette and looked at her. "I don't think you should doubt his feelings for  
you. I think he honestly wants you to have what's best for you, and he isn't  
sure it's him. So he wants you to take your time with the decision."

"I guess." Nat sat back against the  
cushions. "I'm not sure what he thinks my options are, though."

"Maybe that's why he wants you to  
take your time. So that your options will become clearer to you." Nick stood  
up. "Can I get you tea?"

"No, don't be silly, I can - " Nat  
began to struggle up from the couch.

Nick waved her down. "While I'm here,  
you don't have to make your own tea." When she started to protest, he added,  
"and I'm sure your doctor would approve."

Nat subsided wearily. "Okay, fine.  
Thanks. But I warn you, Nick, I'm not in the best of tempers lately. My friends  
come over to help out and they can't stand to be here for more than an hour.  
I lost my patience somewhere about six weeks ago."

"I've been reading up on pregnancy  
mood swings." Nick was in the kitchen now, filling the kettle. "It's nothing  
I can't handle. I'll help out as long as you'll let me."

"Fine. Then while you're up you could  
get me a couple of digestive biscuits too? And you were going to tell me what  
happened to your clothes?"

"They were stolen, along with the  
phone, my wallet, my luggage, and the jeep I'd rented, by the same teenagers  
who nearly cut me in half with a submachine gun and left me for dead outside  
a church near Masiaka," said Nick. "Do you want milk in this?"

"They did what?"

Nick came back and set down a mug  
of tea with milk and honey and a plate with three digestive biscuits on the  
table beside her. He leaned back in the loveseat and stretched out his legs.

"Stole everything I owned and left  
me for dead. Nearly succeeded, too. I was rescued by the hotel clerk just before  
sunup." He held the plate of cookies out to her, but she was staring at him  
and ignored it.

"You nearly died." He could see tears  
springing to her eyes, and his heart twisted painfully with hope. It was too  
soon, far too soon, to press her. But he had no doubt, now, that she felt for  
him. Whether she would ever admit it, he couldn't say. But at least he knew  
it was there.

"I didn't, though." He set the plate  
back down. "Don't worry. Good things came of it."

"I would never have forgiven myself.  
I - " she looked away from him. "I should never have let you go. This was all  
my fault."

"Nat." He touched her shoulder and  
she looked up to him again. She brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand.  
"It was my fault. I was an overconfident idiot. I thought I could just wander  
into a situation I knew nothing about, solve it single-handed and be back in  
time for tea. I deserved to get shot. I may have a few unusual powers, but they  
don't make me superhuman. I'm lucky learning that didn't kill me."

"And I learned something else." Nat  
wiped at her eyes again, and Nick pulled a kleenex from the box beside him and  
offered it to her. "I learned that we all need our friends."

Nat looked at him dumbly, and sniffed.  
She wiped her nose with the kleenex. "Your friends nearly got you killed."

"My friends saved my life." Nick  
settled a cushion beside her on the arm of the couch. "Why don't you lean back  
the way your doctor ordered, and I'll tell you the whole story."

"Are you planning to nag me the whole  
time you're here?" Nat nevertheless lay back against the cushion and accepted  
a cookie. "So tell me the story."

"Highlights or all the details?"

"The whole thing. Start with the  
highlights." She smiled and his heart beat once.

Nick leaned back again, his eyes  
on her face. "The interesting part starts when I woke up in a baptismal font."

"Get out of here."

"No, really..."

***

EPILOGUE

Nicholas moved into Natalie's den  
to take care of her during the three months she had to stay off her feet to  
avoid a miscarriage. Even after she could move around again, it seemed to be  
more convenient for him to stay there. He bought her garlic pizza and stayed  
out on the balcony while she ate it; watched weepy movies with her; and rubbed  
her back and aching feet every night until she melted into sleep. By the time  
Marcus visited Vancouver again, in the ninth month of Natalie's pregnancy, Nat  
knew that dear as he was, she didn't want to marry him, although she had not  
yet allowed herself to know why. He and Nick assisted at the birth of a healthy  
baby boy, whom the mother named Malcolm Andrew, after Marcus' father and Nicholas'  
nephew.

Six weeks after the birth Marcus  
went back to Sierra Leone, satisfied that Malcolm and Natalie were in good hands.  
By then Nicholas had become adept in diaper changing and baby-walking at three  
a.m. so that Natalie could get a little sleep before the next feeding. Natalie  
had always meant to ask him to move out of her den once she was on her feet  
again, but somehow she never got around to it. And his love for little Malcolm  
was so clear she hadn't the heart to throw him out, she told herself.

Malcolm was nearly a year old before  
Natalie began to be aware of her own feelings for Nick. She became awkward and  
self-conscious around him, watched him when she thought he wasn't looking but  
stopped looking at him when he spoke, and was irritated to find that she was  
taking renewed care of her appearance. At least she made sure to change her  
strained sweet-potato stained sweatshirt for a clean one before he awoke in  
the early evenings. She became touchy and easily upset. But strangely, she still  
did not ask him to move.

Nick observed her new behaviour thoughtfully  
for a month. Then he took her to bed.

They were both astonished. Only the  
demands of work and of care for a distractingly adorable child persuaded them  
to get out of bed again.

After nearly a year of continuing  
and frequent mutual astonishment whenever they had the chance, Nick talked Natalie  
into marriage. A postcard from Afghanistan inscribed simply "Congratulations  
\- J" arrived the day before the wedding. Nick saved it for years.

Marcus flew in for the wedding, with  
gifts for the happy couple and his son. He visited religiously one month in  
every six, from every corner of the globe, with stories and souvenirs from his  
travels for Malcolm. When Nick and Natalie bought a house on their marriage,  
one room was set aside as "Marcus' room", for him to use whenever he was in  
town. The rest of the time they used it to store Malcolm's growing collection  
of baroque string instruments. Malcolm grew up to be an internationally known  
baroque musician, specializing in viola da gamba.

In later years Nick resorted to minor  
cosmetic alterations. His hair grew white, and age spots appeared on his hands,  
not always in the same place. LaCroix mocked his efforts on his infrequent visits,  
but put no obstacles in his way, for Natalie had stuck firmly to her refusal  
to look for a cure for her husband.

In all her long and happy life with  
Nicholas, Natalie never once opened her old notebooks or mentioned the subject  
of a cure. Nick was disappointed, but respected her choice. It was the only  
thing that marred his happiness with her. But he had learned long ago, from  
Jacob, that he could not control the future. He could do the right thing in  
the present, and let the result be what it would. When he was meant to find  
a cure, he would. In the meantime, he had a family to love, and work to do.  
He could hardly ask for more. Somehow, he knew, it would all work out as it  
was meant to.

When Malcolm was thirty-five, he  
brought home a warm and delightful woman and announced his intention to marry  
her. At dinner that evening she talked about her work. She was a medical researcher,  
who specialized in questions of longevity. As she spoke Nat caught Nick's eye  
and they clasped hands under the table. "She's the one you were meant to meet,  
Nick," Nat said later as they cleared the dishes away. "I'm sure she can help  
you. After all these years. She's why you're here."

Nick kissed her temple, beside her  
greying hair. "Hardly. I think she can help me, yes. But Nat, you're why I'm  
here."

##   
\- The End -  



End file.
